


Stay

by The_Lionheart



Series: One Sword [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Aunt-Nephew bonding, Awkward Kissing, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Demonic Possession, Eldritch Abomination, Emetophobia, Everybody needs to stop matchmaking Ripley, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flashbacks, HORSE-RASSMENT, Human Captivity, Humans as Livestock, I love Multi-Bear, I realized I had a lot of Tate McGucket feelings, Mama Bear Lazy Susan, Nonconsensual tongue weirdness, Pioneer Day is Confessional Day, Self-Harm, Stan is not tactful, Tate is pretty genre-savvy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vomiting, Well kids I've joined the Rick and Morty trashpile, Woodland Creatures, chupacabra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:47:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 57,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7791037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/pseuds/The_Lionheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <em>"This is not a horse race where winners beat the time,</em><br/><em>This is not a funeral with mourners in a line,</em><br/><em>This is not a sitcom where everything's alright,</em><br/><em>This is not a prison with terror through the night."</em></p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <em>- Oingo Boingo, "Stay"</em><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One : (2)

**Author's Note:**

> Diverges from canon starting at the end of "Legend of the Gobblewonker."
> 
> This isn't going to make much sense if you didn't read the (technically canon-compliant) first installment, Blue Bayou.

His name is Buck. He's never even been close to getting caught. People go missing all the time, and the kind of people he targets are usually alone- drifters, hookers, runaways. People who only end up at these tourist traps because it's easy to find your way to a landmark and because there's usually some way to get what you want in a crowd.

He picks the woman up just outside Mount Rushmore, finishing off an ice cream cone with the kind of glee you normally see in a kid. She looks like she's in her mid-thirties, a thin, pale scar etched across her face just under the edge of her large hornrimmed glasses. When he first spots her she's un-selfconsciously tonguing softserve out of a waffle cone, and he almost doesn't do it because she seems kind of simple and there's a lot of fun in the moment when they realize how much trouble they're in. She, on the other hand, looks like she might not understand what was happening even if he laid out an engraved invitation for her. They exchange names; he doesn't know who would name their kid Arlene Macchiavelli. She's got a Southern accent, completely mangling her own last name, and she laughs like a horse when he tells her he knew a lady that pretty _had_ to be Italian. He knows he can do this with her; she's practically eating out of his hand.

"You having fun with your family here, Arlene?" he asks, just to be sure. If she says yes, he'll cut his losses and try heading to Devil's Tower tomorrow.

"Oh, uh, no. I came here alone." She laughs a little at that. "Sounds weird, I guess. I've never been, though, and I really wanted to see everything."

Perfect. He asks if she's going anywhere in particular.

"West," she says, grinning. "Hoping to hit Yellowstone, go through to the Pacific, then down through California. You headed that-a-ways, Buck?"

"As a matter of fact, I am," he tells her, smiling back. "Say, I'm only in town for the rest of the day, but do you want to go grab dinner with me before we part ways, Arlene?"

"I'd love to," she says, adjusting her backpack.

Once he gets them in his car it's over for them.

He waits until she's buckled up in the car before clearing his throat. "Arlene, can you throw that soggy cone out the window please? I don't allow eating in my car, you know?"

Arlene turns, blinks at him, and shrugs, tucking the cone up into her mouth and chewing slowly with chipmunk cheeks. Absolutely revolting, but she'll be dead soon, and everybody's prettier dead.

"Uh, thanks," he says, turning back to face the front. He saw a little-used service road in the forested hills north of Keystone; that'll be perfect. It's a twenty minute drive, he thinks, and then he'll be out of here by midnight.

"Cute little town," she comments, staring out the window. Mercifully, she's not talking with her mouth full.

"Mmhmm," he agrees, eyes on the road.

"Probably a lot of ghosts, though," she adds.

"Do you believe in ghosts, Arlene?" he asks, unable to fully mask his disdain.

"Ghosts don't need me to believe in them, Buck," she says simply, chin on one hand, the other drumming on the knee of her jeans. "You don't believe in ghosts, though?"

"Seriously?" he asks, eyes narrowing. He will be glad when she's dead, at least then she won't be able to say stupid shit like this. "Superstition is the hallmark of an ignorant mind."

"Fair enough," she muses. He glances over at her as he turns down the secluded dirt road, but she doesn't react when they leave the main thoroughfare. He spots a large scar, peeking out from under her sweaty blonde bangs.

"What happened to your face?" he asks, checking to make sure that no one has turned down the road behind them.

"Hm? Oh, car accident when I was nineteen. Say, is this some kind of shortcut?"

"No," he tells her, pulling over to the side of the road, parking right against the dense treeline. She will be his twelfth. He pulls the knife he's been itching to use ever since she got in his car. "Get out and put your hands behind your head. If you even look like you're trying to get away, I'll run you over right now. Do you understand me?"

She unbuckles, eyeing him nervously. "Look, man. You know you don't have to do this. You can still drive away, live a different life, try to avoid hurting anybody. This can end right now."

"This ends when I say it does," he tells her. "Move your ass, Arlene."

"Okay," she says quietly, stepping out of the car and slamming the door shut. He's out and circling around the front in half a minute, the knife pointed at her chest.

"On your knees," he spits. She blinks at him, glances at the knife, at the rocky ground covered in pine needles.

"No. This is your last chance, Buck," she warns, officially burning out the last vestiges of his patience. He lunges-

-there's a rush of movement, a vicious _crack_ , blinding agony-

-and he's on one knee before he knows what's happening, arm dangling at his side with the elbow facing the wrong way, and the knife's in her hands. He's howling with pain and fury, unable to think straight for a few seconds.

"You bitch, you BITCH," he rants, staggering to his feet. "You fucking-"

"You have no idea how relieved I am that you turned out this way," she says softly. "I was really, really feeling bad about the idea of stealing a car from some innocent tourist."

"You-!" he snarls, unable to form words or a sentence beyond the screaming mantra of _how fucking dare she_ thrumming through his head. He lunges again with his uninjured hand, and almost succeeds in snatching the knife back, she's so surprised. Just as his fingers start to close on the handle, she takes a swing with her empty hand and punches him in the broken arm, right at the break. The pain and the shock snap him out of consciousness, and she unceremoniously kicks him off of her.

She scrambles over to the car and clings to the door, staring at his body, watching his chest move. Hands shaking, she pulls out the small pocket telephone the man at the gas station sold her a few weeks ago. She likes that it can take pictures; she doesn't like that it's got a little message telling her there's no service available. She supposes that's why she was taken here. Nobody would be able to call for help.

"Just a man, not a demon," she tells herself. "Just a bad man." She knows she needs the keys out of his pocket. She knows she needs to let go of the car and get over to him and grab the car keys out of his pocket. The longer she stays, the more likely it is that he'll wake up. The longer she waits, the more likely it is that someone- or something- will come looking.

"I saw what happened."

Speak of the devil.

She opens her eyes. On its own, compared to the things she's seen traveling the multiverse for eighteen years, a talking bear with two heads and four front legs isn't all that unusual. It's weird that she's actually seeing it here, Earth of Dimension 46'\, that's all.

"I tried to give him a chance to walk away," she says shakily. "So many times."

"I know." The bear comes closer, huge and shaggy and chestnut brown. Her breath catches in her throat at the powerful musky odor. Both heads talk at once, although she thinks the left one is slightly slower, giving it a sound like a faint echo.

"W-what's your name?" she asks, because it's the sort of thing _he_ would have asked.

"I am the Bi-Grizzly," it says calmly, looking her over. "You're not screaming. Usually, humans scream. Or shoot."

"I know," she says. "I've been... I've been around. I've seen some stuff. I wouldn't shoot at somebody who wasn't actively trying to hurt me."

"You wouldn't shoot because you don't have a gun," it points out.

"That's just a matter of circumstance," she counters. It seems to consider this, golden eyes roaming over what it can see of her.

"This isn't a safe place to be. There are bears in these woods," it tells her.

"I thought so. I'm sorry. I-I just, I need to figure out what I'm going to do with this guy. I'll be out of your turf soon." The man groans on the ground, and she flinches.

"Leave him."

"I- I'll need the key to the car to drive out of here," she says quietly. The grizzly inclines one of its heads and she takes a deep breath, scuttling forward and plunging her hand into the man's pockets. It takes only a few seconds but it feels like forever before she jumps back, the keyring jingling in her hand.

"What should I- what'll happen to him?" she asks. The Bi-Grizzly chuffs at her.

"Bears have to eat, too," it says simply. She exhales, feeling a little dizzy, but she nods.

"Okay. Thank you for, um, for not attacking me. I'm sorry to have intruded on your home."

"It's best if you leave now," it tells her.

"Right. Yes. Thank you again. Goodbye."

She all but scurries into the driver's seat, forcing herself to not look as the bear creature starts dragging the man deeper into the forest. She tries each key until one turns. She's not very confident in her driving ability, but she wants to at least get herself back onto the road and turned in the right direction. The engine turns and she manages- with some difficulty, but not like the Bi-Grizzly's critiquing her- to get the car off the shoulder and onto the packed dirt of the road. She shuts her eyes and presses her fingertips against them, her glasses pushed up onto her forehead. 

After several long minutes she lowers her hands. The bear and the man are both completely out of sight.

 _"FUCK!"_ Ripley explodes, in the privacy of her new car.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It takes three days to drive to Portland. It would have been less time, but Ripley stops and gets some supplies in Sturgis, and then she really does have to go through Yellowstone. She's knows technically she's already been, in other dimensions at least, but it's lovely and calming in a way most of this world is not. There is a muffled clicking noise from the bottom of her backpack, but the source is buried inside a couple pairs of socks and she doesn't pay it any mind. The traffic is bad- it's Memorial Day weekend, and it didn't occur to her until halfway through the second day of driving that of course it's crowded.

The car is not to her taste. It's a weird butter yellow on the outside and the seats are upholstered in red leather. She keeps wondering if there's blood that she hasn't noticed yet. It grosses her out a little too much, and when she gets to Boise she trades it in for an older blue convertible, and she takes plenty of stops to alternate driving with the top down and cranking it back up.

She doesn't know what she's going to do if she can't find the place- or, worse, if she finds it and he's not there, the way he wasn't in New Jersey and Missouri. She'll figure it out. There's got to be a place in this world for her, even if he's- if he's not around.

She gets a room in a motel, the first time she's slept in an actual bed in a week. She orders pizza and gets it delivered to the lobby; she gives a slice to the haggard-looking receptionist even though the guy doesn't seem to know how to get to Gravity Falls. He asks her if she would like the WiFi password. She takes it down, although she's pretty... pretty sure she can't do anything with it.

Ripley tries to draw the Bi-Grizzly in her journal, because it's what he would have done. It doesn't really... look good, but she puts in a ton of notes so that when she meets back up with him he can draw a better one.

She falls asleep with her journal on her lap, the television on a channel showing a staticky movie about cartoon zoo animals having identity crises.

She wakes up suddenly, Buck's knife in hand, the movie long over and replaced with infomercials for products she can't understand. She reaches blindly for the stone pendant around her neck, clutching it even though it's inert, hasn't been active in over three years, since the portal closed with Ford on the other side.

She locks the room up and goes for a walk, heads down to the gas station with the lights still on at this time of night, buys herself a couple of Dr. Peppers and a roadmap of Oregon. The guy she shared her pizza with is still working, so she stops in and offers him one of the bottles.

"No thanks, I can't unless it's diet," he says, sounding apologetic for not taking her soda. She shrugs and starts to go, but at the last moment she turns back, smiling tiredly at him.

"Say, could I ask a big ol' favor? I'm trying to get somewhere tomorrow for a sudden family thing, and I'm having a hard time finding the place on a map. Could you look up an address for me on your, uh, lab-top computer?"

"Oh, I can do it on my phone," the guy offers, pulling out a flat rectangle that does not look like the little clamshell thing Ripley's got in her pocket. "What's the address?"

"I can't remember the zip code or the house number," she says doubtfully, peering at the thing in this hand. "But the street's Gopher Road, and the town's Gravity Falls."

"Oh, you know what?" he says brightly, waving a hand. "I've seen that on a pamphlet before, let me just-" He ducks down and retrieves a couple of papers from under the desk- one, powder blue and glossy, advertising Lil' Gideon's Tent of Telepathy, one a cheap sheet of  trifolded printer paper advertising something called the Mystery Shack. "It's not looking too bad. Only about four hours away if there's no traffic. Still want me to Google it for you?"

"Uh, sure, yes. Thank you." She has only the vaguest idea what he just said. He writes down some directions on a notepad and hands the paper over with a smile.

"Hey, it's after midnight," he tells her. "Happy Memorial Day."

"You too," she smiles faintly.

Even with stops for breakfast and lunch, it's barely one in the afternoon when she pulls into the greater downtown area. Most places are strangely deserted- she guesses with a town this small, most people are doing fun Memorial Day things.

The grocery store is open, at least. She grabs herself a few necessary supplies and a twelve-pack of bottled water, using the last of Buck's money to do so, and strikes up a conversation with the harried-looking girl at the checkout counter.

"So, is this place normally a ghost town...?" she asks, and the girl shakes her head, smiling wryly.

"No, no, most everybody's down at the lake. Fishing season in Lake Gravity Falls opens up on Memorial Day, and it's a big deal around here."

"Oh, okay, I figured. Say- people keep telling me to get a smart-phone." Ripley takes out the pocket telephone and waggles it a bit. "But I can barely figure out how to use my dumb-phone. Can you give me directions to the nearest motel?"

"Oh, yeah. There's a little family-owned bed and breakfast downtown across from the historic town hall, and I think there's a Super 8 and a Holiday Inn next to Gravity Malls. How long you gonna be in town for?"

"Not sure yet, to be honest?" Ripley shrugs, picking up her grocery bags. "I'm doing research for a book, so I guess it depends on how the research goes."

"What's the book about?" the girl asks, eyes narrowed.

"Historical vampire romance," Ripley says confidently.

"What, like Twilight?" the girl asks, interest piqued.

"What's Twilight?" Ripley asks, and the girl seems unusually disappointed with her answer.

"Oh, uh. Do you want help taking that to your car?" Ripley shakes her head and heads to her convertible, taking mental stock of her situation as she packs her stuff into the trunk. She has sixteen dollars and change, left over from what Buck had in his wallet, an 'emergency fund' consisting of four fifties that she is holding on to, and a few valuables that she'll pawn if she has to, like a couple of watches, a ring or two, heck- even Buck's knife if she got desperate.

She purses her lips, thinking, and tugs the attraction pamphlets from Portland out from under the front bench seat. They don't look too far from each other, based on the little maps drawn onto the pamphlets, but she supposes she'll just follow the signs.

She digs a quarter out of her pocket.

"Heads, tent. Tails, shack," she announces to the empty parking lot, and flips for it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Turns out the Tent of Telepathy is pretty easy to find, and there's even a small group of tourists there. Ripley tries to find an asshole among them but fails to do so; she does feel very guilty for stealing a wallet from someone who probably is a nice man, but he had three twenties in the billfold so she's not overly guilty. She leaves the wallet in the parking lot so he can go back for his ID and credit cards, at least.

Ripley's in a pretty good mood, now, and it's still way too early to think about dinner, so she pays the ten dollar fee to watch the show in the tent- after all, rivers of blood aside, the last time she went to a psychic on a whim she ended up meeting an extremely helpful lady. Ripley's not entirely sure what she expects, but a singing, dancing little boy isn't... exactly it. Still, she stands and claps with everybody else, because audience participation is always fun. She even stands in line to get her complimentary commemorative "Lil Gideon" pin, which she guesses is the name of the little boy, and an idea forms as he appears to shake hands with the small crowd, dabbing a handkerchief at his sweaty little face.

When he reaches her she gets down on one knee, giving him her softest, sweetest smile and shaking his clammy hand.

"Greetings! So I hear you've got a gift, huh?" she asks, beaming. "Gideon, you are just as charming a young man as I ever did see. Tell me somethin' son, would you or maybe your Daddy know where I could find a friend of-"

"That's what Google's for, lady," the boy interrupts, waving a hand as he goes on his way. Ripley pauses, bemused, and puts the commemorative pin in her pocket.

"What a little bastard," she says to herself, fighting the urge to laugh. She meanders over to the gift shop, wondering why anybody would need lamb shears with the kid's face on them when there's no sheep farms in the area that she's aware of. Then again, she wouldn't have expected to be able to purchase a bison-shaped tin full of fudge at Mount Rushmore, either, so who knows what's changed since the last time she was in the dimension.

"See somethin' you like? Cuz I do."

She glances over at the man- big, pink, straw hat- and after a few seconds recognizes the man from the stage show. Father-of-Gideon.

"Just thinkin'," she says, giving him a smile. "Say, maybe you could help me. Name's Arlene, I'm writin' a fiction novel about a small town hero and I'm trying to look up an old friend of mine from college who lived here last I heard from him. I don't suppose you got a phonebook I could sift through, do ya?"

"We-he-hell I'll see what I can wrangle if you put on your Lil' Gideon pin," he says with a laugh and a wink. Ripley pulls it out of her pocket and pins it to the collar of her t-shirt, and he smiles widely, whipping out one of those big flat computer-phones. "Name's Bud Gleeful, Miss Arlene. Now I'm not sure where I can get my hands on a phone book, but I can put that there Google to work pullin' up the Whitepages, can't I? Now, if you just type in the name of your old friend here, and if he lives round here that's gonna be zip code 97459-"

"Why thank you," Ripley says, really wishing someone would sit her down and explain what a Google is and why everyone has one. She painstakingly enters Ford's first and last name and hits the screen where it says Search. She doesn't even have time to hope- in less than a second his name pops up, although it says his phone number is unlisted. Still- still! Ripley perks up, instantly elated. If his information is still active, it means he must live here again!

"You're looking for _Stanford Pines_?" Bud asks suddenly, sounding like he can't believe it. "Now Miss, I don't appreciate the attempt to deceive and I certainly can't begin to guess at the age of a lady, but simply put I don't rightly believe you was born yet by the time that ornery ol' cussed old bucket o' bile went to college."

"Well-" Ripley beckons him close. "Between you and me, that's just my cover story. I'm a private investigator; I just don't want any friends'a his warnin' him that I'm coming. It's just been a little harder than I expected to actually locate the feller. I can count on you not to warn the man, can't I Bud?"

"Of course," Bud gives her a wink, leaning in close enough that she can smell the frankly shocking odor of his breath. "But I'm surprised you haven't been able to find him yet- he's got those ob-noxious signs littered halfway 'cross the state! Tell you what, darlin, I don't make a habit of sendin' my lovely customers to the competition but in this case I'll make an exception." He jots down the address to Ford's house, including helpful directions on how to get there.

"Mr. Gleeful-"

"Please! I'm Bud to my friends, Arlene."

"-Bud, thank you. You have no idea how helpful you're being right now," Ripley says seriously.

Ripley carefully pockets the address, winking conspiratorially.

She keeps her composure just long enough to get into the car and shut the door. She takes a few deep breaths, trying not to cry or scream.

"Okay," she tells herself shakily. "Okay, you can do this. Just go on up and confront 'im. He's just down the fucking street." She buckles up, although the shoulder strap catches on the Gideon pin. She huffs, taking the pin off and tucking it into her backpack for safekeeping. She's glad she hasn't wasted any money on a hotel room, though- she's probably going to latch on and refuse to let Ford out of her sight once she sees him again.

It really is a very short drive, although it takes longer because of all the traffic as the townsfolk head home after, apparently, a long day of fishing. It's starting to get dark when she finally pulls up to the address in question, although she stares at the house for a long time before she really believes it.

"Mystery Shack," she whispers to herself. "Mystery Shack? That... cannot be right." She checks the paper again, checks the number on the side of the road, checks the paper again. The forest makes it darker than it ought to be for this early in the evening, and there are lights on upstairs, the soft blue glow of a tv shining through a part in the curtains in a room on the ground floor.

"Okaaay. Be cool. He opened up a tourist trap when he got home. That's not even the weirdest thing he could have done," she tells herself firmly, grabbing her wallet and the box of Funfetti cake mix she bought from the grocery store earlier, her phone tucked into a pocket. She gets to the door and freezes. Should she knock? There's no bell. She should knock. She raises a fist, then lowers it, frowning. She doesn't want to sound like she's breaking the door down, but she wants to be loud enough that Ford'll definitely hear it.

She knocks "Shave and a Haircut" onto the wood, taking a deep breath. This is it. This is it. This-

"I'll get it!" Ripley stares at the door. That was a little girl's voice.

"I'm already here!" a little boy's voice replies, and she doesn't have time to flee before the door is thrown wide open.

Ripley blinks. The nose is different and he's not wearing glasses, but the kid is otherwise the spitting image of Baby Ford from the photo he carries around.

"Can I... help you?"  the boy asks suspiciously. He's a little sunburned, he smells like lake water, and he's wearing a bucket hat with "Dippy" patched onto the front.

"Who is that?" the little girl asks, bouncing into view. She looks the same age, also sunburned, also smelly, also wearing a bucket hat, this one with the name "Mabel." The L is falling off.

Ripley gets down on one knee, although her knees are not at all happy about it.

"Uh, hi. I'm- I'm not sure if I have the right house, I'm looking for Stanford Pines?" she asks hopefully.

"And who are you exactly?" the boy asks suspiciously. The girl, on the other hand, looks like she's constipated or something, a weird expression frozen on her face, her eyes huge and sparkly.

"Well, uh," Ripley says, not sure how to explain this to... Ford's children? Must be. A brilliant idea hits. "Tell him... tell him I've really, really missed him a lot, but my aim is getting better!"

She winks exaggeratedly. The girl squeals and turns red, shaking with what looks like unbridled glee. The boy just looks utterly dumbfounded.

"Uh... okay. Wait here, I guess?" He turns, shaking his head. "I don't believe this."

Ripley stands up and brushes herself off, tugging on the end of her ponytail, suddenly self-conscious that she's probably a mess right now.

"How do I look, uh, Mabel?" she tries, giving the girl an awkward smile.

"You look _beautiful!_ " the girl- definitely Mabel- squawks, bouncing. "I'm going to go make sure Grunkle Stan's coming!"

"Uncle?" Ripley repeats. From upstairs she can hear a faint knocking, the boy's voice calling out, _Hey Grunkle Stan, your ex-wife is here and wants to talk to you?_ followed by the rapid pounding of heavy feet on wooden floor.

A deep, gravelly voice rings out, "Da-arn you, Marilyn, I don't know how you found me, but-"

The old man rushes out in boxers and an undershirt and slippers, eyes hidden behind his glasses, hair tucked under a fez.

"Stanford?" Ripley asks faintly. He doesn't look forty-five. She knows logically that he might have spent more time traveling than she has, that their chronological times have never matched up, but... but...

"Who the heck are you supposed to be?" he asks, confused. Ripley blinks, eyes narrowing.

"Where's Stanford Pines?" she asks, taking a step forward.

"You're lookin' at him, lady, whaddya want?" he asks, exasperated.

Ripley grabs the man by the wrist, holding up his hand.

"I can count to six, genius. Where's Ford?" she hisses.

His eyes widen and she knows that expression, the combination of _fuck you_ and _oh shit_ that she's seen on Ford's face a thousand times-

"Oh my god, you're his brother," Ripley says softly, letting go of his hand. "You're Stanl-"

"Shut it!" he snaps, glancing over his shoulder. "Who the hell are you and why are you looking for-" He makes a hand gesture that she assumes means Ford.

"We... I was in the same boat as him, in the... the portal, dimension, stuff," she says, feeling oddly numb. "We're... sort of married? We got separated three years ago, I-I thought... I thought if I was back home then he must've gotten back already, too."

The old man, Stanley, lets out a shuddering sigh. "No. Not yet. I'm still... I'm still workin' on that." He looks over at her, scrubbing a hand through his stubble. "You saw him three years ago, though? So he was... he was okay, right?"

"I mean... yes. Kinda."

"What do you mean, kinda?" Stanley asks sharply.

"I mean- look, we have a problem, alright? Because the last time I saw him he was only forty-two. You're sixty-one, right? Bout to turn sixty-two?" He nods, and she sighs. "Thing with dimension travel is that sometimes it's also time travel, Stanley. If we got him back right now he might only be a day older than the last time I saw him, or it might be three years to match mine, or he might be matched up with your age, or... older. Stanley, we have to face the possibility that if we can retrieve him at all, he might not be alive anymore."

"Look, quit it with the Stanley stuff, it's just Stan," he corrects, and she rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, no, I figured it out what you're doing, man, I just- whatever. I don't know why you're doing that, but it's fine."

"And another thing, what's this 'we' stuff?" he adds, drawing himself up.

"Well, you said you're trying to get him back," she says, confused. "And, obviously, I want to get him back, too. Plus I have experience using portals, right? So... so  innit obvious? We have to work together."

"Yeah, no. Why should I trust you, anyway? Some sketchy broad shows up in the middle of the night-" Ripley puts her hands on his shoulders, resisting the urge to give him a shake. He's probably so old he'd die if she did that.

"My name's Ripley," she tells him firmly. "I'm from Atlanta. Me an' him have been together for five years. We've saved each other's lives more times than I can count. He told me about you and Sherman and your parents. His favorite food is still pancakes. Stan, please. I've had three years of hoping and searching and wondering, and I can't even imagine havin' to go through all that for thirty. I just want to help."

He opens his mouth, and she can see the No on his face before he even starts speaking-

-there's a squeal of excitement from inside. They both glance over, and the little girl- Mabel- is there, stars in her eyes, peeking around the corner at them.

"Pumpkin, go to bed," Stan says, sounding weary.

"Don't mind me!" the girl gushes. "You two lovebirds just get back to your epic romantic reunion!"

"Stan, this kid is fucking adorable," Ripley says, unable to fight off the small grin.

" _Language_ ," Stan growls, brushing her hands off.

"Uh. Sorry." Ripley clears her throat, and Stan's eye looks like it's twitching behind his glasses. "So... you gonna accept my help or not?"

Stan gives her a suspicious glance over, then shrugs, as if it makes no difference to him. "We'll see. I don't want you around the kids, though. The kind of stuff he was doing, it's dangerous, and this place is dangerous enough as it is."

"I understand completely," Ripley says, nodding. "So... I... can come inside for a bit? I don't have a hotel set up yet."

"Absolutely not."

 


	2. Chapter 2: The Blood-Splattered BRIDE

**Dimension 52, 3 years ago**

 

_"F-Ford," she rasps, eyes widening._

_"He's going to be fine," the veiled lady says, brushing the hair off Ripley's burning forehead. "And so are you. Rest now."_

_It's a dreamless, restful sleep._

The Lady- she calls herself Jheselbraum the Unswerving, Ripley's tired brain keeps turning it to Jezebel the Unswirley- always seems to arrive just as Ripley's waking up, making a point of being seen entering the door, and Ripley appreciates that she's not being obvious about watching over her as she sleeps.

"How long," Ripley asks hoarsely. The Lady passes her a glass of water and she drinks carefully, because she choked the first time she tried to chug it.

"Can you be more specific?" the Lady asks, picking up Ripley's right arm. "Also, squeeze your hand into a fist, thank you."

Ripley obeys, although she's not sure if the Lady's doing something weird and mystical or if this is what doctoring looks like in this dimension.

"Since Ford,"  Ripley clarifies, as the Lady puts her arm back on the bed.

"For you, chronologically, it's been about a week," the Lady says calmly. "Five days and seventeen hours, since I know it's important for you to know."

"How long has it been for him?" Ripley asks, her lungs burning by the time she's done forcing out the question. The Lady sighs, thinking about it.

"It doesn't really... work like that, Ripley. But by the time he's spent five days and seventeen hours away from you, he will be safely ensconced in the military complex you pointed out to him, working on building a portal generator so he can reach a living world. Beyond that, I cannot tell you."

"Can't or won't?" Ripley asks.

"Won't," the Lady admits. "Because right now, with the two of you apart like this, your timelines are in flux. In one dimension you're meeting for the first time, in another it's been five years since you met, in another it's five years since he saw you."

"So you can tell me when I find him but not when he finds me," Ripley whispers, closing her eyes. Jheselbraum is quiet for a long time.

"Do you know what the worst thing is about being a prophet, Ripley?" she asks, finally. "It's not seeing everything that might be- all the different, alternate futures, unspooling from the same thread of time, pouring through realms of possibility, and knowing that among those futures are all the infinite you's who succeeded or failed. It's... it's knowing that you can do the best you can to tell people what's supposed to happen, how it's supposed to happen, why it's supposed to happen... and they'll change the future to what they think you meant. They'll interpret a prophecy of peace to mean a harbinger of war. They'll actively fight the knowledge of what they fear will happen and in doing so cause the outcome they tried so hard to prevent. And it doesn't matter that I told them one thing, because I also saw the other thing, and there's nothing I can do to put the timeline back on the right track, once it's off."

"And that, of course, makes the outrageous presumption that I even know for sure which course of action is objectively correct over any other."

"So... what you're telling me... is you won't tell me when I see him again, either. Or if... if I even get to." Ripley looks up, and the Lady smiles softly, patting the front of Ripley's shoulder- where, fortunately, it's the only place she doesn't constantly hurt.

"Don't be a smartass." The Lady stands, picking up the empty water glass. "There's no point in telling you that you maybe won't see him again. For one, there's a hundred thousand ways to lawyer your way out of a prophecy like that- you might genuinely see him, or run into his twin or his past self or an alternate self, you might enter a dimension where his bounty posters are everywhere you look, you might have extremely vivid dreams- and second of all, if I do tell you that you definitely won't see him, you'll go out of your way to prove that I'm wrong about it. So I'm just going to tell you to figure out what future you think is most likely and then work toward that one."

"Hah!" Ripley tries to laugh, and it turns into a cough. "S-so, can you tell me when I'll be up an' at'em?"

"Well, the casts come off in six days," the Lady replies, grinning. "That's the doctor in me talking, not the prophet. You're going to have knee problems for the rest of your life, or at least until you no longer have those knees. I know there's no point in telling you to wear a helmet next time you get thrown off a building, so I'm going to ask that you avoid getting thrown off a building. Head injuries are no joke."

"Oh my god," Ripley groans.

"Fortunately, you just had a relatively minor concussion. Unfortunately, it means I didn't have an excuse to install a metal plate in your skull. Unless you want me to?"

"...I'm good, thanks though," Ripley says, unnerved.

"Thought I'd check." The Lady purses her full lips, looking Ripley over. "Your burns are healed. I also healed the hole in your tongue. You're missing a few teeth but I didn't know if you'd want me to replace them so I just fixed the ones you still have. Everything else is healing at a normal rate, you'll be sore for a few more days but nothing you can't survive. I retouched your tattoo, so it's looking nice and fresh."

"Why?!" Ripley interrupts, horrified. "It's just a stupid drunkenness tattoo! Why on Earth would you touch it up?"

"I assumed it had some sort of importance to you," Jheselbraum says, all seven of her eyes blinking at slightly different rates. "I can remove it if you want-"

"No. No, just... it's fine, Jez, thank you." Ripley sighs, thinking about "Hey Now, You're An All-Star!" writ large across Ford's heart. "So when am I going to be good to go find Ford again?"

"Well," the Lady says, choosing her words carefully, "when you leave is entirely up to you. I mean, to a point, I'm not actually letting you leave with two broken legs."

"Fair enough," Ripley says, smiling weakly.

In six days, Ripley gets to know Jheselbraum only slightly better- she doesn't seem to try to actively want to be mysterious, but there's a lot of questions Ripley can't figure out how to ask, and many of the ones she does ask have no easy answer. Ripley asks if there's infinite Time Babies or just the one; the Lady responds that Time Baby is the last of an ancient race of Time Giants. She asks if there's a Bill Cipher in every dimension or just the one that harasses Ford following him around all dimensions; the Lady responds that Bill is infinite and recursive and a liar and miserable, and all the more dangerous for his misery. Ripley asks if there's a first dimension, a dimension that all others sprang from; the Lady tells her that infinity goes on infinitely in _all_ directions. Every time they try to have a serious conversation they end up getting frustrated with one another, so they start avoiding any conversation unrelated to Ripley's medical care, trivialities, and politeness.

The first mealtime after she gets the casts off, Ripley joins Jheselbraum outside under the stars. They're beautiful, and Ripley can't remember what the night sky looked like on Earth, but she knows it doesn't have three moons in pink, orange, and yellow.

"Come here," the Lady says quietly, pointing skyward. "See that constellation, right next to the pink moon? That's the Pine Tree. On the other side of the moon is the Shooting Star." Her slim fingertip traces the shape. "That's the Fish Eating the Egg, and right over it is his son, the Snake, which is technically eating the same egg. There's the Mended Heart, and the All-Seeing Star, and that one's the Frozen Shield-"

"It says 'ice' on it in English?" Ripley asks, squinting through her glasses. "That doesn't seem natural. Is that a pair of John Lennon glasses next to it?"

"Well- it's called The Scholar's Eyes here, but yes. Next to that is the Burdened Warrior."

"That one looks like a llama. Do you guys have llamas here?"

"No. But I've seen Earth llamas, you're not wrong in your comparison. And over here next to the Fish you have-"

"It looks like a hand," Ripley interrupts, then frowns. "It's... got six fingers?"

"The Guardian's Hand," Jheselbraum says quietly. "Next to it is the Sword of the Kingslayer."

Ripley stares up at the sky, wondering what Ford would think about this.

"Prophecies are a funny thing," the Lady says. "Even when they're true, they can be made to mean something else."

"Is Ford prophesized to do something cool and epic?" Ripley asks.

"Well, everything in his life would make him think so," the Lady replies. "And once he believes something to be true, he's nigh-impossible to convince otherwise."

"Meaning he's a stubborn butthole. So if he ever hears a prophecy he thinks is about him doing something cool and epic, he'll try to do that thing, even if it might get him hurt or something," Ripley concludes, frowning. "Because at that point it won't even occur to him to try to subvert the prophecy into some other thing."

"Oh, he's already seen it- the prophecy he found in Gravity Falls that contained the Zodiac, the one that released Cipher." She holds her fingers up in a triangle, centered over the yellow moon. "He saw ancient writings depicting the rise and fall of a demon, one who 'Makes Playthings of All Minds,' and mistranslated it as one who 'Has Knowledge of All Minds.' He saw these terrible drawings showing a monster presiding over the open mouth of Hell as it swallows the land around it, and misunderstood the monster as reversing the damage done because he viewed the drawings left-to-right instead of right-to-left. He didn't truly believe the incantation would summon Cipher, but he equally wanted to obtain the answers Cipher could give, so he disregarded any form of safety in his careless pursuit. And now... well."

"Yeah but- he wasn't trying to do anything bad, Jezzie," Ripley says, looking over at her. "He didn't know he was reading it wrong."

"You what he's like," Jheselbraum says, as kindly as she can. "Intentions don't matter in the face of the result."

Ripley huffs out a sad little laugh. "Yeah, I know. Try to get him to have a reasonable conversation about his brother sometime, see how that goes."

"Oh, trust me, I have no intentions of letting that man talk in circles about some ultimately meaningless human university," the Lady promises. Ripley thinks for a while, glancing over.

"So you're probably going to see him again, before I see him, but not when I'm here, right?"

The Lady hesitates, then nods.

"Well," Ripley says, laboriously getting to her feet and dusting herself off. "Tell you what. I'll take another week to get back into okay-ish shape to travel and figure out how to get travelin', then I'm outta your hair. The sooner we can create the conditions necessary to get Ford to you and then back to me, the better."

"As you wish, Ripley." Jheselbraum stands too, offering Ripley her arm to walk her back inside. "I'll spend the next few days building you something that will help with your journey."

Despite her intentions to stay only one more week, it takes closer to two to get back to where she feels like she could drop into the middle of a fight and make her way out alive. It's only when she tells the Lady that she thinks she's ready that the mysterious oracle presents her with a wrist-mounted miniaturized computer designed to seek out naturally occurring portals and "steer" them toward any particular branch of the multiverse.

"It's not foolproof," she explains to Ripley, showing her how to set coordinates and seek out activity. "But say you're looking for Dimension 5Y%N. Of the limited pool of dimensions the portal might open up onto, only the ones that have a 5 designation would become available. Spend a little extra time configuring, and only the ones with 5Y designations would appear. It's limited to the actual options- each portal only has so many dimensions that could conceivably connect to it- but it should make your journey home much, much faster and less damaging than using your sword to open portals. That... that really probably should only be done in extreme emergencies."

"Oh? Ford and I were doin' it left and right," Ripley says, feeling guilty and a little defensive.

"Ye-es, and Ford should have known better." The Oracle pats Ripley's back. "Don't worry about the past, Ripley Savage. For that matter, don't worry about the future, either. Just... do your best."

"I always do," Ripley grins, flexing an arm at her.

**Dimension 46*\, today**

 

Ripley wakes up cold and confused. It takes her a minute to realize it's because the air conditioning is turned all the way down and her blanket is on the floor. She ended up going with the bed and breakfast downtown- the proprietor was all too happy to haggle the nightly rates down, which makes no sense to Ripley because she's sure he can't be making good money that way, but she's grateful regardless.

It's not quite sunrise yet but she doesn't think she'll get back to sleep, her fingertips self-consciously feeling at the scar crossing her cheeks and nose. It's been a little over a year and it still doesn't feel like a part of her face.

There's a soft clatter outside her window. She's up and armed in seconds, Buck's knife in one hand, Ford's old blaster in the other. There's another little clatter, the soft scraping of fingertips against the glass and the painted wooden frame outside. Her fingers tighten around the weapons, and she really wishes she had put her glasses on before now. The window slides slowly open, and something small- maybe the size of a cat?- tumbles into the room. She frowns, putting the knife down and hovering her hand over the light switch.

"Alright, boys, we're in! Now to find the fridge- hey- I think we're in the wrong room!"

Ripley flips the light on. There's a little bearded man wearing a red, conical hat on the floor, and another one is halfway into the act of joining him.

"You're right. You're in the wrong room," she growls, using her best 'intimidating' voice as she levels the (ammo-less, inactive) blaster at the little guys. "What exactly do you think you're doing here?"

"Jeesh, lady! We're just looking for the kitchen, no harm done! Right, Shmebulock?" the first little guy proclaims, hands on his hips.

"Shmebulock!" the fellow struggling to slip through the open window proclaims.

"Get your half-pint little asses out of my room before I put on my steel-toed stompin' boots," Ripley says flatly.

"We're going, we're going-" The little guy stops talking, jumping and- apparently- struggling to reach the window pane without assistance. It's pretty painful to watch, and after about a minute Ripley sighs heavily and puts the blaster down, sliding her glasses onto her face so she can get a better look at her intruders. They're not the weirdest thing she's ever seen by a long shot- they're not even the weirdest thing she's seen on this planet, but the sheer audacity of the little bastards is honestly off-putting. Something about them jogs her memory- Ford told her about some of the weirdness in Gravity Falls, and he had a weird thing about their hats and thinking they couldn't or wouldn't take them off.

"Seems like you did a pretty poor job plannin' this heist, Tiny," Ripley remarks, leaning over to pick the gnome up by the back of his jacket. "So what are you after in the kitchen, anyway? Gold? Rubies? Hot Pockets?"

"Hey, put me down!" the guy protests.

"You just snuck into my bedroom at four-thirty in the morning, buddy, you don't get to boss people around," Ripley tells him firmly. "Am I going to have to worry about you little buggers breaking in again?"

"Shmebulock!" the gray-bearded gnome half-out of the window said in a frantic tone.

"No, right, we're not going to make this mistake again," the guy says fervently. "You have my word, and a gnome's word is his bond! We were just looking for food because we're literally starving, so..."

"You got a name, Mister Gnome?" Ripley asks, because that's the kind of thing Ford would ask.

"I'm Jeff," the gnome replies, wriggling his legs. "Look, if you're not gonna, I dunno, eat us or anything, we'll need to scurry home to the forest before the sun comes up-"

"Oh, fine." Ripley walks over, opening the window the rest of the way and giving Shmebulock a hand- well, a finger- so he can stand on the sill. "Where in the forest are you guys? I can bring you a few non-perishables if it'll mean ya'll're gonna stop trying to sneak into people's houses."

"Oh yeah, like we're really gonna tell you how to find us," Jeff says, affronted. Ripley shrugs, peeking her head out the window. There's at least a dozen gnomes below, caught in the act of standing on one another's shoulders to try to get to her window on the second floor. Ripley sighs deeply.

"Okay, I feel like I would be morally remiss if I neglected to tell ya'll that the kitchen is almost always on the ground floor. There ain't a good reason to be this high up." She grabs Shmebulock and lowers him out the window until the topmost gnome grabs onto him. She waits until he starts scurrying safely down the line of gnomes before shrugging and passing Jeff out the window as well. "Don't let me catch you little assholes at it again, got it?"

"Awright, awright!" Jeff snaps, and Ripley watches with a sort of morbid fascination as the group of gnomes somehow climbs down over itself and scatters, the little men running off east. Ripley stands, cracking her spine a little, and starts to shut the window again.

She pauses, hand raised against the window. It almost looks like there's a couple of guys on the street, wearing red hooded robes. Or red hooded track suits. She closes the window and starts to shut the curtains, frowning. It seems kind of early in the morning to be jogging, but hey, what does she know, maybe people care about jogging a whole heck of a lot in this dimension now.

She takes another peek out the window, but the red hooded guys are gone.

"I'm gonna kill Ford for moving to such a weirdass town," she says pleasantly to the room at large. Nodding, she decides to take her shower for the day- such luxury, she doesn't think she'll ever get over it- so she can get dressed and head downstairs for breakfast. The owner is awake and in the kitchen by the time she gets down, although she notices he's only just starting to cook. He's wearing a freshly pressed iteration of the same tank top and jean shorts he wore late last night when she inquired about staying for a few days, and for some reason is wearing a hairnet over his green and white trucker hat.

"Well, aren't you just an early bird!" he chirps, and she grins.

"Oh, I like to get a start on my day. You need a hand with any of that, Mr. Cutebiker?" she asks, gesturing at the stove and hoping he says no.

"Oh, please, call me Tyler!" he beams. His good mood is infectious, and Ripley feels... well, pretty alright, considering she still hasn't figured out this situation with Ford's brother and the whole thing with the gnomes has left her feeling a little worried, although she's not sure why. "I wouldn't say no to you settin' the table, little lady! It's just gonna be the two of us today."

Ripley doesn't bother trying to correct this man, who is easily only taking up a third of the space Ripley does, in calling her 'little.' She lays plates out, figures out where the forks are, tries to remember if napkins are a part of the process and vaguely recalls that they are somewhere in the mix. She's still standing awkwardly over the table, clutching flatware and trying to puzzle out if he wants her to include knives and spoons, when he comes in with a couple of omelettes on a pan and a jar of salsa in his other hand.

"Great job!" Tyler enthuses, putting the jar down and carefully sliding the omelettes onto the plates. "Now I didn't know if you'd like salsa on your omelette so I brought some out. Just pour it on wherever if you want it, okay? Okay!"

"Okay," Ripley agrees, relaxing a little. He gives her a giant smile, before taking a seat and digging in to his omelette. She takes a seat across from him, adding salsa after a moment's thought- she's never had an omelette with salsa, and she doesn't think she's ever had Earth salsa anyway, so it'll be a fun new experience.

They eat in relative silence, and... and actually the salsa was a pretty good choice. She resolves to buy herself some salsa the next time she gets food. Tyler agrees to knock another five dollars a night off her rates if she agrees to wash the dishes after breakfast, which seems beyond fair to Ripley- she sort of wonders if he doesn't really need the income, at this rate, but it's a pleasant enough way to spend some time in the morning and she truly doesn't have any concrete goals for the day. She had driven here thinking she would maybe get a little closure at seeing a place that had been a part of Ford, then she had had an hour of actually thinking she would get to reunite with him, stay in his home with him, maybe even get back into the rhythm they'd established with a life together, who knows. Now there's... this brother, who Ford had very obviously loved even if he didn't seem to be able to think clearly about him. From what little she's seen of the man, it's a shared trait.

She's drying the plates and the pan (she vaguely recalls having been told that you're not supposed to wash pans, but that seems gross, so she compromised and used scalding hot water without dish soap) before she realizes that she has no idea what Stan meant about 'working' towards getting Ford back. Ford seemed to always think Stanley would have hidden the journal that had the instructions on how to operate the portal, which would make sense if Stanley was the type of person to just do whatever Ford said without question. Since Ripley is not that type of person, she can't imagine that Ford's twin is, either. If anything, she reasons, he's the same stubborn butthole that Ford is, deep down.

So yeah, she figures he didn't get rid of the journal. Ford also seemed to think Stanley, with roughly the same about of formal education that Ripley has, would be incapable of operating the portal generator. Ripley was pretty sure that was hypocritical at best, considering he was telling that to her as she was making an improvement on the wiring in their portal generator's activation unit. With the person who'd invented the portal generator, it had taken Ripley months to master most of what she'd needed to fix, maintain, and use it. Even without a dedicated teacher, Ripley doubted that Stan spent the last three decades twiddling his thumbs.

So yeah, she figures he's at least most of the way to figuring out how Ford's portal generator works. Ripley's help will probably halve the time it'll take to complete it, and the sooner Ford is returned to 46*\, the better. She smiles, patting her hands dry on Tyler's dish towel. She just needs to grab her backpack and head up to the Mystery Shack- heck, they might have the portal done by the end of the week, they might have Ford back in time for his birthday! And then she's going to make the Funfetti cake mix that she bought in town and make that bastard eat it for all those times he made out like Funfetti was the grossest thing he'd ever heard of.

It's a solid hour's walk to get to the Mystery Shack- probably wouldn't take too long if she really had to run, but it's a charming little town and she wants to get to know it, just in case she really does end up living here long-term. She also takes a few minutes here and there to stop and jot notes to herself- under her expletive-filled entry from this morning about the gnomes, she also takes down the hours of operation for Greasy's Diner, reminds herself to bring a few boxes of cereal to the gnomes, and doodles the graffiti she keeps spotting- a cute muffin in red paint, a target with an 'x' through it (also in red, and possibly not a target?), BANGO SKANK WUZ HERE (which she and Ford used to find across the multiverse, he'll get a kick out of it when he comes back.)

She arrives just before a teenaged girl walks up from a different direction, wearing a fur-lined brown ushanka over her long red hair; Ripley actually wants one a lot, now that she sees this girl's.

"Scuze me, miss?" Ripley asks.

"Uh... can I help you?" the girl asks warily, rubbing her elbow through the green plaid of her shirt.

"Two questions!" she replies. "First- where can I get a hat like that?"

"I dunno, my dad gave it to me?" the girl says, taking a step back.

"Oh, that's cool. It's, uh, it's a cool... hat. Anyway." Ripley tucks her notebook under one arm, offering the other to the man in a handshake. "Well, nice to meet you, my name's Ripley! The other question I have is-"

"WENDY! You're late! Where the heck have you been- oh, _you're_ back," Stan grumbles from the doorway, scratching himself in a robe and the same sweatstained underthings he had on last night. "Look, you can't... you can't just show up here, alright?"

"You didn't give me a phone number to call you at, Stan," Ripley says gently. "And we have a lot to talk about, don't you think?"

"This your girlfriend, Stan?" Wendy asks teasingly, and Stan coughs violently.

"No! She's my, uh, ex-wife," he mumbles, and Wendy bursts out laughing.

"No way! Are you serious?"

"We're reuniting to spark the flames of our love," Ripley says, sidestepping quickly so she can put an arm around Stan.

"No we're not!" Stan protests, looking like a panicked animal.

"Does Mabel know?" Wendy asks, grinning like a shark.

"Mabel doesn't need to know!" Stan snaps.

"She did kind of walk in on us almost-kissing last night," Ripley says, tightening her grip around Stan's shoulders. "But Stan doesn't want me to distract him from his kids, so we're having all of our romantic liaisons on the down-low. That's kid slang nowadays for being discreet," she adds primly.

"This is not discreet!" Stan growls, hunching his shoulders.

"Stan. Gross old-person love is a beautiful thing," Wendy says solemnly, before bursting into quiet, barely-contained chuckles and giving Ripley a high five, for some reason.

"Wendy, your- your butt is fired!" Stan fumes, ducking away from Ripley as Wendy goes into the gift shop, still snickering. Stan gives Ripley a nasty glare. "What the hell was that about? Now they're gonna-"

"Stan, now if the kids see me around your house and you're- for some reason- still not telling them about the you-know-what to get back you-know-who, they'll have an excuse already. It'll be for, you know, love reconnecting purposes." Ripley waves an arm. "I thought you telling her that I'm your ex-wife was to maintain the mixup with the kids last night, so we only have one lie to deal with at a time."

"Yeah, of course!" Stan says quickly, ears reddening. There's a lot of ear, so there's a lot of redness happening. She sighs, massaging the bridge of her nose.

"So, can we get to business or what?" Ripley asks quietly. "You want to talk somewhere more private than this, right? And we really do need to talk."

Stan exhales, giving her a sour look. "My bedroom."

"Scandal!"

"Cut that out!"

Ripley tries to keep her giggles to herself as they stalk through the house. It doesn't look much like what Ford described, but thirty years will do that to a place, she guesses. The bedroom is... not what she would expect at all, although she likes the portrait of Stan with a dog and she can get behind the idea of the giant "Dogs Playing Poker" over his headboard. Kind of messy, but that at least is something he has in common with Ford.

"So your boudoir is the only place we can speak without little ears listening in?" she asks, and he grumbles.

"No, but it's the only room in the house that's been proofed against any kinda bugs or wiretapping, and it's soundproof, so..."

"Fancy," Ripley remarks. "I would have expected you to take me down to Ford's portal, but hey, this works."

"Did he tell you how to-" Stan starts, eyes burning with a naked hope that makes Ripley deeply uncomfortable.

"Look, Stan- Ford did teach me how to maintain and fix a portal generator, but a small handheld one. I'm going to need to take a look at what you have, this isn't something I'll be able to talk you through. I'm not a genius, I'm gonna have to get my hands dirty to figure this thing out." He heaves a disappointed sigh, and she puts her hand on his shoulder again. "But it's gonna happen, man. I can fix portals and I can help steer'em, almost. And then Ford'll be home. Just tell me what you need me to do in order for this to get rollin'."

"Well," he sighs, scratching the top of his forehead under his fez. "Fuck, where to start? Something broke in the machine when Ford went through, and I've tried to fix it but, you know, is it broken or is it just outta gas? And there's something that's supposedly a control map explaining how to dial it in to wherever Ford went, but I only have a third of it, so... I dunno, I'm shooting blind here."

"Well..." Ripley sits down on the edge of his bed, thinking. "I can probably help with any repairs, since in theory, you know, it's just a scaled up version of what I already got. Ford built me a thing that can find fuel sources for my little portal maker, so theoretically, we can figure out a way to reverse-engineer it to find whatever we're gonna need for the big one. And I have a device that can partially steer natural portals, so, again, theoretically you an' me can jury-rig it up so we can use it to help steer Ford's portal. The odds of Ford bein' in the same dimension he first went to are pretty small, though, so we gotta find a way to seek just him out, but, like, that shouldn't be that hard, theoretically."

"You just said theoretically four times," Stan points out glumly.

"I'm confident that we can make this happen," Ripley replies. "I know it's early to trust me, but Ford trusts you, Stan, and that means I trust you. We spent five years trying to get back to you, man. Me an' you, we can do this. Alright?"

"I gotta get to work," he grumbles, turning away. Ripley sighs- apparently, hesitating to trust her was another Pines Family Trait. "Look... the kids are in bed by ten. Come in around midnight, I'll take you to the portal. Okay?"

"Okay," Ripley says, perking up. "Okay! Great. That's... I won't let you down, Stan."

"See yourself out," he replies, taking a white collared shirt out of his closet. Biting her lip, Ripley brushes past him on her way out of his room. Well, it doesn't matter that he's being a dick about it, she reminds herself. He'll warm up eventually, and if he doesn't, that's... fine, too, because when Ford gets back it won't even matter.

"What were you doing in my uncle's room?" the boy from last night asks, and Ripley turns guiltily to face him. He's got a box of cereal in one hand and a supremely suspicious expression on his face.

"Uh, grown up stuff, obviously. Hey, Dippy-"

"Dipper."

"Dipper, where's your... sister? Cousin?"

"Sister! Mabel's working on an art project to replace Wax Abraham Lincoln." He pours the cereal, still giving her the evil eye.

"Okay. Well. That sounds like a lot so I'll be... doing something... nonspecific so, goodbye. Uh. Yeah." Ripley turns to the door, pretending she doesn't hear him scoff and mutter that she even makes the same dumb excuses.

"Hey, wait." Stan comes out of his room wearing his shirt and tie- but for some reason no pants- and gives Ripley a slip of paper. "Just, you know. For next time. Call ahead so it doesn't scare the teeth outta me."

"Will do, sweetcheeks," Ripley says, and he shudders.

"Don't... call me that. Jeez," he exhales, and she stifles the urge to giggle again on her way out.


	3. Chapter 3: The Origin of O-Ren

Ripley calls Stan five minutes before she pulls up in her blue car, and has to wait around on the porch with a plastic bag full of takeout boxes as he scrambles to let her in.

"What's that?" he asks, adjusting his glasses to look at the bag.

"Don't argue with me, old man, everybody likes pork fried rice," Ripley says sternly. "And you're eating it with me unless you got some kinda old folks condition that prevents it. You... don't, right?"

"Oh for- just get inside," Stan grumbles, letting her into the gift shop. She looks around, whistling a little.

"Oh, that's so neat. It's a snowglobe, with your house in it. I love that." She turns and startles slightly, face to face with... a glittery wax statue of Stan. "Whoa, what the fuck is this?"

"It's a wax figure. Mabel made it, and it's fucking amazing," Stan all but snarls at her as he grabs a camping lantern from behind the counter.

"I love it," Ripley says promptly, putting her head on its shoulder. "I mean, weird fake people-statues kind of scare me, so I'm definitely going to have nightmares later, but it looks exactly like you but if you were cute and sparkly. I would take it home with me if it wasn't guaranteed to frighten the shit out of me when I'm alone in a room with it."

"Well you can't take it home, because I'm opening up a wax museum tomorrow and Wax Stan's going to be the headliner," he announces, pride bleeding into his tone. Ripley beams at him.

"Oh, that's wonderful! I'm definitely coming to see that, I've never been to the grand opening of anything. I mean, wax people are literally the worst, but this guy's pretty great," she adds, patting Wax Stan gingerly before scurrying away from it. "I bet he's even better in full daylight, right? Right. When's the opening?"

"Ah, you don't have to-" Stan starts, and Ripley waves him off.

"Stan, it'll look more suspicious if I don't show up. Besides, what kind of aunt would I be if I didn't go to my little niece's art thing? I'm doing it."

"You're not their aunt," Stan points out, entering a code into the vending machine.

"Yes I am. I was Alien Gladiator Married to Ford. That makes me their aunt." Ripley perks up as Stan swings the vending machine aside on a hinge, revealing a short corridor and an elevator. "That makes you my brother-in-law, Stan."

Stan shushes her, pulling the door shut behind them and entering in a code that looks completely foreign to Ripley, her translator implant unable to even detect the symbols as a true language. It must mean something, though, because the elevator lights up and they get in. Stan waits until they're in motion before he lights the lantern, the pale light barely illuminating the entire elevator. Once they get out, she takes a look around, more than a little flabbergasted at the size of the basement level, the apparent lack of lighting, the sheer age of the computer components... Ripley's not sure what question to ask first.

He opens a door and they stand in front of the dark, inert portal. Ripley stares at it, trying to wrap her brain around the sheer size of the thing, before she turns and gives Stan a grimfaced sigh.

"Your brother's a fucking moron," she tells him.

 

**Dimension 4X <6, 2 years ago**

 

 

The air tastes faintly like ammonia, like she's in a room where some unfortunate soul pissed himself weeks ago, only the effect is everywhere, no matter where she goes it lingers in the back of Ripley's throat. She thinks it might be slowly poisoning her, but she's five hundred miles from the nearest natural portal and she's not willing yet to break the promise she made a year back, telling Jezzie that she wouldn't use Ol' Sparky to generate a portal unless the situation was Dire For Real. She doesn't notice any birdsong or rustling in the underbrush, and the silence annoys her but she's not sure why. She's in a forest at first, then farmland, and she's surprised to see that there are signs of the land closest to her being recently tilled, and lights in the farmhouse when night falls. Ripley skirts the property until she gets to what looks like a cornfield, and decides to try crossing through to get a better look at the farmhouse. The ammonia smell is stronger in the cornfield, but she's so hungry she gives in to the temptation to pluck an ear of corn so she can have something to gnaw on until she figures out her food situation.

She shucks off the first couple of leaves and thick, chunky blood oozes out over her fingers. She throws it away in a panic, burying her hands in the sandy soil to clot the foul-smelling liquid. She retches quietly for a few minutes, but nothing comes up but a thin stream of bile- there's nothing to vomit, she hasn't eaten in two days. Ripley steels herself- it's going to be bad, she knows it's going to be bad, it's been a rough year without Ford but as far as she knows he's got it worse and she has to save him if that's the case, she promised she would use natural portals whenever possible, there has to be something safe for her to eat here- until the shaking in her limbs and the wrenching feeling in her gut have passed.

She wipes her hands clean- well, not clean, but dry enough with the bloody dirt crumbled away- and gives the pendant under her shirt a light squeeze. Ford would write this shit down. She'll wait until her hands don't smear brown and red onto the page, but she'll write about it, too.

She finds a trough full of what she hopes is rainwater, but there's no animals that she can see any sign of. She almost drinks from it but decides against it. She's not that desperate yet. She washes her hands, though, and the water kind of feels greasy but it's better to be clean.

She waits until the lights are all out before she ventures closer to the farmhouse. There's no dog, no cat. No signs of rats, for that matter. She tries the doorknob to the kitchen and it's unlocked; makes sense, this far out in the country. She's always been quiet- as far as she knows, anyway- but even her light, padding footsteps sound booming and ominous to her strained ears. She makes it to the pantry and picks up a can, squinting to see the label in the dark. Savory Gravy Meat Stew, which sounds okay, so she puts it in her pack. Potato and White Meat Chowder, which... could be good, so into the pack it goes. She declines to take Corn And Meat Dumpling Soup, because... no. Hell no.

There are a couple of tins that look like sardines, and she actually likes sardines when she gets them- it's one of those surprisingly common foodstuffs in the multiverse- so she pockets a few cans of those, too, along with a small sack of flour and a box of salt. Her bag is now heavy enough that the weight is cutting into her shoulder; she thinks she'll try to get her hands on some clean water and make some shitty flat biscuits over a fire later. She re-enters the kitchen and is pleasantly surprised to see a working refrigerator. She pulls it open and spots a tin carafe- it's milk, a little sour-smelling but otherwise normal. She finds a chipped mug in a cupboard and pours it half full, taking a long swig before she has a chance to psyche herself out of drinking it. It tastes... fine. Really sweet and rich, with a funny sour aftertaste, but she supposes it's normal for farm-fresh milk or something. She wonders if they have their own cows, to get milk this fresh.

She makes a split-second decision- she needs to drink stuff, she'll want milk to make the biscuits nutritional and junk, and when the milk's gone she'll want something to carry water in.

The farmer's wife catches her in the act of walking out the kitchen door. They stand still for a moment- Ripley looking guilty, clutching a bag and most of the gallon of milk, the old woman wearing a nightgown and bonnet that look like something out of Little House on the Prairie.

"JIM!" the woman screams, and Ripley bolts. "JIM, COME QUICK!"

Ripley cuts through the cornfield to hide, despite the fact that she'd rather be literally anywhere else, and behind her she hears the screen door slam. She hears the wife tell Jim to check the barn, she hears him opening the barn doors and causing a minor ruckus, and- after several long, tense minutes, she hears him come back, telling his wife that none of the livestock are missing.

"We'll look in the morning, sweetheart," she hears him say, in a tender tone that makes her heart lurch with guilt. She hears them go inside. She waits in a half-crouch until her left leg falls asleep, and only after she starts to lose her balance does she tentatively start moving again. The man's already checked the barn, she figures, so he won't be back until morning. She just... she just needs to sit somewhere and maybe cook those biscuits over the heat of her plasma blade, maybe even take a little nap, just... just gather up her strength so she can get back on the move.

The shuffling noises inside the barn cease as soon as she comes in. It's hard to see at first, and Ripley sticks close to the door- she doesn't want to get trampled by an angry cow or something.

Her eyes adjust to the near-total lack of light, and she takes a few steps forward, looking for a ladder to get up into the hayloft.

She glances into a stall on her left, expecting to see a horse, and three naked adult women stare back at her. One of them is tall and blonde and, in the dark, could be mistaken for Ripley, she figures, if she was wearing clothes.

"Jeez! Fuck, are you guys okay?" Ripley gasps, opening the wooden gate to let them out. None of them move. The floor is strewn with hay and there's a small standing puddle of piss and shit over a drain in the middle of the floor. Ripley takes a few steps back, shaking. "You guys can... you can go. I d-don't know what kind of fucked up thing is happening here but you can go now. You-"

Her back hits the gate for the stall opposite, and thick, dirty arms wrap around her from behind. She drops the tin container of milk and it spills across the floor- only sheer force of will stops her from screaming and alerting the farmer to her presence, even as she feels a human face nosing curiously at the back of her head and neck. She considers trying to wriggle her way out of the man's grip up until the moment she feels a hot, sticky tongue drag across the back of her ear; her elbow connects with his side with a meaty crack and he releases her, howling wordlessly.

"Fuck, fuck," she almost wails, even though she hopes like hell she broke a rib. She sprints to the other end of the barn- all the stalls, she notes, are full of people, naked, staring dead-eyed at her from the dark confines of their holding pens- and there's a big, heavy, sliding door, and she throws her weight against it before she realizes it has to go sideways. The man she'd hit is still screaming and thrashing in his stall, and she's pretty sure she can hear the farmer yelling and the screen door slam.

She gets the door just open enough for her to squeeze through, the rough wood scraping her face bloody and snagging several of her hairs, and she runs until she hits the edge of the forest again, her throat burning with every breath she takes. She collapses against a large pine tree and starts crying. She realizes there hasn't been any sign of a non-human animal since she got here; she comes to a nauseating realization about where that milk came from, and it takes everything she has not to vomit up what little nutrition she's taken in for days.

Hands trembling, Ripley takes one of the sardine tins out of her pocket and cradles it in her hands. There's no picture of fish anywhere on the can, just a little cartoon chef proclaiming how good the stuff inside is. It's too dark to read any of the words.

She knows she's going to hate herself for opening the can. She tries telling herself that Ford would be objective, that Ford would eat it, whatever it was. She uses the little key on the side of the can to twist the top of the can open, and the smell of olive oil is so strong it makes her mouth water. She looks down, and a dozen eyes- mostly blue or grey, two or three darker brown- stare up at her.

She breaks. It's five hundred miles to the nearest natural portal and she can't eat anything here, she can't make it that far like this. She digs Ol' Sparky out and activates the computer Jheselbraum gave her- it's meant to be used on natural portals to give it a chance to try to find what she's looking for, the ones she makes with Sparky don't last long enough, but she's got to try, she's got to get out of this godforsaken dimension.

Her fingers fumble and she drops the sword; bending over to pick it up makes her feel woozy and lightheaded.

Everything goes gray. Ripley blinks, and there's a hoarse, cackling laugh from behind her. She turns and it's... some... kind of glowing lady shape, backlit in neon green and teeming with tongues everywhere.

"Who are you supposed to be?" Ripley asks, backing up a little.

"I am the owner of this dimension, you foolish woman," the entity says, form coagulating into something like a diseased Barbie doll, moist tongues lolling from way, way too many places, glossy teeth jutting from things that should not be mouths and eyes staring straight at her from inside those mouths. "I am Natashoggoth, the Ever-Voracious One. I understand you've met my... commanding officer, Bill Cipher. And you, my delightful little morsel... are a _new_ flavor."

"This... is... the mindscape. This is the mindscape," Ripley repeats, slapping herself across the face and feeling nothing. She takes a deep breath. "You have no power over my mindscape. Lucid... lucid dreaming. You're, you're basically fucked, gal."

"Oh, I'm not here to threaten," Natashoggoth says, laughing again as she steps into Ripley's personal space and runs a fingertip across Ripley's collarbone through her shirt. "What you're about to witness is your fault, little Savage. You could choose to stay put, turn yourself in, save the old couple you stole from. It's not their fault they live in a world with no other options, is it?" Ripley shudders bodily, and the demon laughs again. "They would have helped you if you hadn't stolen from them, you know. If you hadn't run, One Sword. They just thought one of the livestock had escaped; they would be horrified to think of a woman running away from them, homeless and hungry... and now, you're going to watch as I crucify them."

"Stop," Ripley says, her mouth dry. One of the tongues attached to Natashoggoth's wrist curves against her neck, plucking lightly at the chain necklace, and Ripley jerks back from the touch, curling in on herself. "Don't, don't, don't-"

"They are mine," the demon says, each mouth speaking as one. "And if you're really such a hero, you would run down there, right now, you would turn yourself in as soon as you wake up, right when my forces drag the old woman out by her hair. It won't be so bad, Ripley- I'll get to keep you, after Bill's done taking everything he wants about his little six-fingered pet from your mind."

"F-fuck you," Ripley tries to say, and it comes out as a sob. A clammy hand that smells like a waterlogged corpse caresses the side of her face, soaking her hair and the front of her shirt, and she bursts into tears.

"Wouldn't it be nice to have somebody take care of you, after all this, after all the work you put into taking care of that stupid scientist?" Natashoggoth croons. "Wouldn't it be nice to be held in a caring embrace? To not be hungry? To not be running? And just think, after you help us capture Stanford Pines, after Bill opens the doorway and we are all freed into your world, you'll finally get to be with Six-Fingers again. Isn't that what you want? Isn't that _everything_ you want?"

"I-I... I want..." Ripley starts, gulping down air with a shudder. Natashoggoth leans in closer.

"Yes?" she purrs, drool oozing from most of her mouths.

"I want you out of my fuckin' face," Ripley says quietly. Her arm becomes a sword- impossibly huge and on fire, and she rams it through the collection of mouths that makes up Natashoggoth's gut. "Fucking _mind-scape_ , you demon asshole!"

The demon shrieks, sprouting wings covered in pustulent sores and flying back and away from Ripley.

"You have three minutes to save them, One Sword," she snarls. "Starting **now**!"

Ripley jerks awake at the base of the tree, gasping for air, her head pounding. She picks up Sparky and gets to her feet. She can already hear the screaming. It looks like a half dozen uniformed men are spilling out of a black helicopter, maybe more. She could run back to the farm and kill the soldiers before they can hurt the old people, maybe. She could steal the helicopter and try to fly it closer to the portal anomaly- she doesn't know shit about flying a helicopter, but it can't be much harder than flying a spinning hovercraft from the Rodent Dimension, can it?

From her spot at the edge of the forest, Ripley sees one of the soldiers look in her direction, pointing with his whole arm, and helping a writhing greenblack figure out of the helicopter.

She breaks.

Ripley activates the portal generator and slashes her way out of this dimension. She can still hear the old couple screaming, even after the portal closes.

 

**Dimension 46*\, today**

 

They don't get much done. After an hour and a half, during which Ripley spends almost the entire time angrily cursing Ford out for not installing lights and for making everything so enormous, she stops what she's doing somewhere in the innards of one of the portal's larger pieces and demands that Stan take a break with her for some food. She forgoes the chopsticks for one of two plastic spoons, shoveling the rice into her face, her back pressed against the rock wall of the cave.

"So how bad is it?" Stan asks, clearly bracing himself as he picks at his own container of pork fried rice. "I mean, look, I just- I don't know shit about quantum physics or-"

"Stan, shut up," Ripley interrupts, putting her rice down. "This thing isn't broken anymore. The... the only good thing about this whole mess is that you've already done everything I woulda done to fix Ford's stupid apocalypse portal. You replaced all the burnt out wiring, and I can see where you had to hammer shit into place to get the turbines stabilized. It's just... Ford is... he is so fucking frustrating right now." She digs Ol' Sparky out of her bag, holding it up.

"Look at this shit, Stan, you see this?"

"What is that supposed to be? Some kinda... I dunno, flashlight?" he asks, digging around with his own spoon.

"Stan, this entire thing is the portal generator Ford and I used for five years. This isn't even _all_ portal generator, Stan, most of it is plasma sword. He could have made a portal generator the size of a graphing calculator and stuck it onto a doorframe, for shit's sake. Instead he makes this, this... monstrosity that you could drive a fucking schoolbus through! How did he not know this was a shitty idea!? Oh wait, he did- he just ignored the people he was supposed to be trusting with this project because of his own stupid _vanity_!"

They're silent for a few moments in the wake of her outburst.

"Look, I know he can be a real knucklehead, especially when he thinks he's right, but my brother _is_ a fucking genius, and he's a good... he's a good person," Stan says finally. "He wouldn't have built it if he knew it was fucked up, y'know?"

"Oh yeah? You know what he did, the last time I saw him?" Ripley shoves Ol' Sparky away into her bag, fuming. "He decided I couldn't handle some zombies with him, so this asshole shoves me off a roof. He opens up a portal and _shoves me off a roof_. You ever had two broken legs at once, Stan? Because it fucking sucks. And now I've spent the last three years trying to find him again. All because he decided it was for my own good or some shit, so he cut me loose without even thinking that maybe _he_ needed me as much I needed him!"

Stan's eyes are rooted to the floor, his mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Well, I know what that feels like."

Ripley sighs, her shoulders slumping as she looks over at him. "Yeah, I suppose you do. Somebody needs to give that jerk a stern talkin' to when he comes home."

"Yeah? Great to hear you volunteer for the job," Stan replies, deadpan. Ripley snorts.

"Awful. Just awful." She eats a little more rice, her entire posture a little more relaxed. "I dunno how much we're gonna get to do tonight, to be honest. We're going to need to figure out a fuel source and we're going to have a bitch of a time figuring out the computer stuff and even then, we're gonna have to figure out all kinds of complicated physics shit to steer it towards him." She scowls again. "Trust Ford fuckin' Pines to make this the most complicated task in human history."

"Oh, good, so it ain't just me," Stan says, and she huffs a laugh, standing up with a lot of creaky knee noises.

"You oughtta get some sleep, and so should I. I'll come over for that wax museum thing, and then, I dunno. I'll probably drive a couple towns over and hold up a convenience store."

"Sure, that- wait, _what_?" He turns an outrageously shocked expression on her as she helps him up. "You're joking, right?"

"Uh... sure." Ripley stares at him, and he stares back. Finally she sighs. "No, I'm not joking. I went up to Gibbersville earlier and snagged a guy's wallet to pay for the food and gas, and I pawned some watches and rings I picked up on my drive up from Missouri, so I have enough money to last me out to the end of the week, but I'm not sure at all how long this is gonna take and we're... gonna incur some expenses with this project, man. We're gonna want another soldering iron pretty soon, actually. You still have yours, right?"

"Ah, it might... be broken," Stan admits, and Ripley sighs.

"We're gonna want two soldering irons... pretty soon."

"Not to burst your... crime spree plannin' bubble, but you're pretty, uh, distinctive lookin'. One witness and you're gettin' caught, yanno." Stan busies himself arranging some junk on the computer console.

"Hmm, true. Anything valuable in the woods around here?" she asks suddenly, thinking about yesterday. "I mean, other than those gnome creepers."

"Aw hell, you ran into those guys?" Stan sighs, rolling his eyes. "See... yeah. There's a lot of shit in the woods and it's all dangerous to get to, so I wouldn't recommend it."

"Well, I'm gonna give it a shot, see if there's anything worth pawning or selling." Ripley bags the trash from their little interlude, tying the bag handles into a tight knot to keep rice from spilling out. She scrubs her chin thoughtfully as they enter the elevator up. "You know what else we're gonna install in this joint, before we do anything else? Fucking floodlamps. I dunno how you've managed in the dark for thirty years, but this has to end, I can't see shit."

"Hmmph. Well, it bears repeating- if you're gonna screw around with all the weird shit Ford was into, keep away from the kids. The last thing they need is to be in even more danger because they're off looking for it," Stan grunts. Ripley shrugs- she's never been around human kids as much as she has for the past couple of days, so she's not going to argue even though the kids do seem like a ton of fun to be around.

"Yeah, well, I really wouldn't want'em gettin' hurt or nothin', so I ain't gonna fight ya on that front, but- _motherfucker_!" she yelps, jerking backwards and pressing her face against a startled Stan for a moment. "Oh my god. Ogod. I forgot the wax figure was in there. Oh god. Okay. I'm good."

"You... need any help getting out of here?" Stan asks slowly, as she shields her eyes with one hand to avoid accidentally spotting Wax Stan.

"Nah. Nah, I'll... I'll see you tomorrow. Noon, right?"

"Right. Noon," he echoes, scratching his chest through his undershirt.

 

**Dimension Q4K/, 2 years ago**

 

It's been a week since she left Dimension 4x<6 and she thinks this must be some kind of sick joke.

"We've been waiting for a hero in our time of need!" the chieftain of the little village pleads, throwing himself at her feet. He's small and covered in scales in a pinkish-coral diamondback pattern, and she massages the back of her neck and tries to figure out if she can or even should help the little guy out.

"I'm... really not a hero, you guys. I'm just passing through," she tries to tell him, looking away. "The longer I stick around, the more danger I put you fellas in, so please, just..."

"Oh, please, Lady Sword!" an even smaller person- a child- cries out, running forward. "Please help us, you was told of in the stars, a giant lady of the sword who can save us!"

Ripley covers her face with her hands. The chieftain gets up to shush the child- his daughter, apparently- and Ripley knows she's not going to leave this place without helping these weird little pink iguana folks.

She spends a few days finding out what she can about the dragon that's been harassing the village. They feed her, give her a private little hut in the quietest part of the valley with a too-soft bed, and when she wakes up whimpering she finds the chieftain's little girl- Qanak, that's her name, it means High Climber- stroking her face with her curious little pawlike hands. The girl tells her that legends say eating the flesh of the dragon will grant unnatural strength and speed to the warrior cunning enough to kill it.

She spends another few days traveling by foot to the lair of the dragon. It's about the size of a horse, but she can see how something that size would cause problems for the little village. Ripley's attempt at diplomacy fails; she ends up killing the beast. Roasting the dragon's meat makes it okay to eat, and Ripley doesn't notice any change in her strength or speed after doing so. She spends another couple of days in the dragon's lair, smoking it into jerky, using the last of the salt she stole from the old people to do so. She's not really all that fond of jerky, but she's never going to let herself be in a position where she eats the contents of the two cans still in the bottom of her bag if she can help it.

She drags the dragon's skull and bones behind her, back to the village, because if they get a reputation for being able to take care of dragons maybe they won't get harassed by them so much. She thinks she could polish one of the dragon's finger bones into a kid-sized amulet for Qanak, because if she's going down as some kinda folk hero she wants the kid to have physical proof she existed.

The village isn't on fire anymore by the time Ripley climbs the hill leading to the little valley. She leaves the dragon's bones in a scattered trail down the path as she runs.

They are all dead. They have all been crucified, their tiny bodies hung at chest height. A wall that was left unburnt is covered in a drawing in their blood- a circle around a symbol that looks like a mouth full of mouths, and those mouths are full of mouths and those mouthsarefullofmouthsandthosemouthsarefullofmouths and Ripley's on her knees, the symbol is a circle around a crude drawing of an open, laughing, toothy human mouth, and between the teeth and the dripping tongue there is an eye.

Ripley knows. She knows. She doesn't know how, but she knows _who_.

She digs eighty graves, and when she lays the bodies to rest she only fills seventy-nine. She realizes that she hasn't seen Qanak's face among the dead.

She finds the girl curled in a ball, her scales burnt black. She thinks Qanak is dead until the child raises her head and asks her if she saved them.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," Ripley says, and then she repeats it, over and over, as she tentatively examines the injuries, as she realizes she doesn't even know how to help someone who's been hurt this badly.

"They came outta hole in the sky," the girl whispers, burying her face in Ripley's chest. "They hurt my Da. And... and she came an' she said she would help me make everything stop, but I hadda give you this. I said yes."

"It's alright," Ripley says gently, pressing a kiss against Qanak's forehead, her lips coming away ashy. "It's alright. It's over."

"Not yet," the girl says, and there's something clutched in her fist. She holds it up, and Ripley takes it, and Qanak stops moving, stops breathing.

Ripley buries Qanak in the final grave, uses Ol' Sparky to carve an X across the symbol on the wall. She checks the wrist-mounted computer; forty-five miles northeast to the nearest natural portal.

Numb and exhausted, Ripley starts walking northeast. She finally unfolds the slip of paper Qanak gave her, frowns at the drawings- the triangle with its one eye, the circular mouth with its own eye- and at the handwritten message below.

_See you real soon._


	4. Chapter 4: The MAN from OKINAWA

She's not sure if Stan intended for the grand re-opening to go this way, but the way he's ready to flee the instant the crowd's mood shifts makes her think Stan knew people would have a mini-riot over the lack of pizza. Ripley waits until the smoke and dust clear to approach Mabel, her journal open to a blank page, a pen in her other hand.

"Excuse me, Miss Pines, but could I get an autograph from the artist?" she asks, grinning widely. Dipper rolls his eyes, arms folded across his skinny chest.

"Normally I charge for those, but you're getting the Auntie Discount!" the girl says happily, and Ripley chuckles, passing her journal over for Mabel to sign. "You're almost out of pages in your autograph book, Aunt Ripley!"

"Aw, I know, it's just my journal, I didn't know I'd need an autograph book," Ripley admits. She isn't sure what Mabel could be writing that would take up a whole page, but she finds she doesn't mind. "You two kiddos keepin' out of trouble today, I hope?"

"So far," Dipper says, and when Ripley glances at him he points two fingers at his narrowed eyes, then points them back at her.

"Whoa, is that some kind of gang sign? Dipper, are you in a gang?" Ripley asks, feigning seriousness.

"What?! No! It means I'm _watching_ you!" he splutters. "I-I'm not in a gang! I've never done anything criminal before this summer!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, kidlet, relax. I'm just playing with you. Don't worry, I don't care what kind of criminal trouble you get into, Dipper, I'll always have your back. Auntie Promise!" Ripley adds, holding out her pinkie.

"I'm not touching that," Dipper announces. Mabel shuts the journal with a snap, giving Ripley a large, exaggerated wink.

"Oh, did you write something nice?" Ripley asks brightly, tucking the blue, leatherbound book against her chest.

"Maybe I wrote a few pointers on how to soften Grunkle Stan up," the girl giggles adorably.

"That's very sweet of you," Ripley says seriously. "You're the best and only niece I have, Mabel. And you, Dipper, are my favorite and only nephew. Treasure it, kids. All my Auntie Powers are focused on you two like a laser beam."

"Whoa," Mabel breathes out. Dipper just frowns at her.

"Where did you get that?" he asks, gesturing at her journal.

"Oh, this? It's handmade." Ripley holds it out to let him see, glad to finally have something that kid's interested in. He runs a hand over the smooth leather, and the hilarious flaming sword design Ford had scored into the dyed leather. Mabel edges against Dipper's side, experimentally running a finger against the front cover.

"I love your fire sword, Aunt Ripley," Mabel enthuses.

"You made this?" Dipper asks, opening it to the first page.

"Oh, no, that's-" Ripley coughs and grabs the journal back, hugging it with an embarrassed smile. "I'm sorry, kid, but some of that stuff is definitely not for children's eyes, y'know? Anyway, that's my personal diary, so, yeah." Dipper's eyes are narrowed, and he starts taking several steps back.

"C'mon, Mabel, we have to get going," he says urgently.

"Why, you gonna try to sneak a peak at my diary, too?" Mabel teases. Ripley does not comprehend how these two kids got so charming, but it's sweet as heck.

"No, just- come on, I'll explain later!" He grabs her hand, and as he drags her off Ripley makes out a whispered, "It's just as I thought!"

"What a weird kid," Ripley muses, glancing at the page in question. It's just a short note from Ford- nothing scandalous or even all that revealing. He didn't even bother signing his name, since it's not like she would have got it from anybody else.

_Happy Birthday, Ripley- my only wish is that you have many more to come, and that I am there for all of them. And, as always- ad astra per aspera!_

Ripley has no idea what could have possibly offended Dipper about it- it's downright sweet, even if Ford did stick his goofy Latin motto onto the end.

The tall, chubby fella who was helping Stan with sound effects earlier is back- Ripley understands he's a handyman working for Stan around the Mystery Shack portion of the house, and possibly also the house portion of the house?- and now he's stacking chairs and trying to clean up the mess made as the guests rampaged out.

"Hey, you need a hand with that?" Ripley asks.

"Oh, sure, uh- Mrs. Pines?" the guy asks shyly, and Ripley laughs.

"Oh wow, who was it, Wendy or Mabel?"

"Mabel," he admits, and she sticks a hand out.

"I figured, she's real enthusiastic, ain't she? Anyway, I didn't take the last name. I'm Ripley." He shakes her hand, beaming.... He sort of looks like one of the gopher people from the Rodent Dimension, come to think of it.

"Soos Ramirez! Wow, I can't believe Mr. Pines never mentioned you in all the years I've worked for him!" he proclaims. Ripley eyeballs him, but Soos doesn't seem to be accusing her of anything... yet.

"How long have you been working for Stan, Soos?" she asks smoothly, gently disentangling her hand from his grasp and reaching down to pick up some litter.

"Almost exactly ten years, Ma'am," he says happily, lifting a stack of folding chairs.

"Ah, yeah, that certainly explains it," Ripley says, nodding sagely. "Stan and I haven't been together in... about... fourteen years. I'm sorry to say I broke Stan's tender heart, but I'm trying to do everything I can to make it up to him. I just, I dunno if I'm getting through to him. He's..." Ripley struggles momentarily to think of what she could say about Stan that would sound legitimate. "He's... he's a tender soul, deep down. Under, uh, under his... crusty layers."

She sneaks a peek to see if Soos is buying it, and is startled to see the man is in tears.

"That's what I keep saying!" he cries out, crushing her in a sudden hug. "Well Missus Ripley, I hope you can reignite your love!"

"Yeah," Ripley coughs out. "Me too. H-hey, let's get this yard cleared out, right?" He releases her, sniffling. It only takes about twenty minutes for the two of them to get the yard back in order, for the most part.

Familial obligations fulfilled, Ripley figures she can spend the rest of the afternoon in the forest fulfilling her promise to Stan to try something non-crime related to get funds. Worst case scenario, it ends up being about as profitable as a regular forest and she can go and make a plan to rob a few people tomorrow.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After an hour Ripley gives up. The forest is hot and sweaty, she's covered in mosquito bites (a bunch on her calf spell "HATCH FOR DAGNER" which... makes no sense at all to Ripley), she's got this weird feeling that she's being watched, and she keeps getting pebbles stuck in the cheap sneakers she picked up back in Portland.

Ripley sits down on a log in a bit of a huff, yanking off her shoe to shake another round of little rocks and dirt out of it.

"This is ridiculous," she tells the shoe, before shoving it back onto her foot. "I've literally walked thousands of miles through countless dimensions."

She starts tying her laces, sniffing angrily. "I'm a hero on a hundred worlds and a monster in a thousand more, man. Tells me I can't rob a convenience store. I stole the Ember Heart of Cryttaria!"

A low hissing noise comes from just behind her elbow. "What's he think I'm gonna do for cash, huh? My entire resume basically reads 'interdimensional brigand' and it's not like I can just get... a... job..."

Ripley pauses, looking over her shoulder. A wrinkly brown wolf-sized creature with six limbs and near-translucent spines sticking up out of its back hisses again at her.

"Oh, you were listening to all that?" she asks. Her backpack is where she left it, on her back. She's not at all sure why she didn't think she'd need a weapon in easy reach, but she supposes that's the lesson learned for today.

It lunges and she rolls out of the way, even though it's hell on her knees. She's got her backpack off before it can lunge again, and it's not heavy or hard enough to do any real damage but a nice solid swing connects with the creature's head, giving Ripley enough time to scramble back to her feet before the creature can recover. It crouches low, hissing again.

"Don't play that game, baby," Ripley wheezes, grinning. She kicks a spray of loose dirt at its face- she's going to have to beat these shoes against a wall to get the junk out- and takes off running the second she sees its eyes close. At a dead run, maybe she could have outpaced it, but the forest floor is littered with weird large rocks and tree roots and fallen branches and all sorts of nonsense, and Ripley wastes way too much time and energy dodging trees and trying not to break her own ankle. She goes through the mental checklist Ford started with her when they had to identify creatures on the fly.

_1\. Predatory? Yes._

_2\. Aggressive? Yes._

_3\. Venomous? Check the spines, that's a maybe._

_4\. Faster than us?_

Ripley feels its claws on her back and the wind is knocked out of her as the creature pounces her to the ground. _That's a yes._

She throws herself sideways, rolling onto her back and throwing a punch in one fluid motion. The creature tumbles, snarling and scratching at her arms, and they fall through a mass of fallen branches into a leafy thicket. Ripley kicks out with both feet, catching it square in the chest and giving herself enough space to pull out Ol' Sparky. Her knees screaming, she stands, igniting the blade and letting it illuminate the darkened forest around them. Startled by the bright light- or, perhaps, smart enough to know a weapon when it sees one- the creature backs away, growling low in its throat.

"Yeah, that's right, shitlord," Ripley pants, "what are you gonna do? You gonna back the fuck off or you gonna see what it's like to die burning?"

The creature takes a step or two back, hissing. Ripley's pretty sure that's the end of their fun little adventure, but she hears the soft snap of a foot pressing against a twig at ground level, and the creature's face whips to her left. Ripley makes the decision to tackle it the second she sees its forelegs shift and its back legs coil, deactivating the sword so she doesn't accidentally lop her own head off as she throws herself at the creature.

That ends up being a mistake- one of the creature's spines breaks off under the force of her arm wrapping around its back, but two more slice through the material of her light jacket and there's a burning pain in her bicep that she prays to every god isn't a puncture wound.

Out of the corner of her eye she can see what the creature was lunging for- small humanoid, smaller than a human child, curly brown hair, furry legs that end in hooves- and she wrests the creature back, her blood flowing freely onto its shoulders. She bites back a curse, letting go of the creature just long enough to re-ignite the sword before she stabs it down through the creature's spine. The creature's limbs scrabble frantically at the forest floor for a few seconds, and she forces the blade forward until it cuts a sizzling path through its ribcage and out through the joint of its shoulder.

Ripley looks at the little thing she just saved- looks like a faun or a satyr or whatever you call'em, she thinks woozily- and turns the blade of her sword off again as she kicks the creature's still-smoking corpse to the side.

"Y-you okay?" she asks, her tongue thick in her mouth. She takes a step toward the little guy and collapses flat on her face.

She comes to with a strangled cry, surrounded by a variety of woodland creatures. She blinks ferociously, wondering why everything's so blurry until she puts a hand to her face and realizes her glasses are off.

"Glasses," she mutters dryly to a vaguely familiar shape next to her face.

"Shmebulock," the gnome tells her, handing them over. Ripley looks at him, puts her glasses on, then looks at him again.

"Hey, Smebulock," she croaks. "You sneakin' into ladies' bedrooms again, man?"

"Hey, lady, you're in our bedroom this time, technically," Jeff cuts in, jumping up to physically protect Shmebulock from whatever Ripley's accusing him of.

"You saved me from the chupacabra!" the little satyr-faun guy from earlier pipes up, getting straight in her face with his chubby-cheeked, doe-eyed self. Ripley recoils slightly, looking at her arm. Her jacket' sleeve's off and she must be numbed up from something, because she can't feel anything from the mass of bandages past her shoulder. Even her busted-up knees are being quiet, for once.

"I can't feel my limbs?" she says, ending it as a question to let someone explain.

"That's probably the poison you got injected with," another gnome explains, and he's wearing a tiny white labcoat so he must be the doctor gnome. Ripley giggles helplessly, sitting up with a bit of a struggle.

"Venom," she corrects, even though she's lightheaded as hell now. "It's only poison if you... eat it..."

"Shmebulock," Shmebulock repeats, but this time in a bit of a warning tone. Ripley looks blearily at him and wonders if he comes with a translator. Jeff doesn't look like he knows what his fellow gnome is saying, either.

"Hush now. We'll talk later," she tells the gnome, before focusing her unsteady gaze on the faun-satyr. "Okay... first... what are you? And what'd you say that thing I killed was?"

"I'm a faun!" Ripley nods, taking note of this for later. "And the beast you killed to protect me was the chupacabra, scourge of my people!"

"Your people?" she asks, not following.

"You know... fauns, goats... various farm animals..."

Ripley doesn't know how to respond to that, so she just nods. "Well. Yes. I'm glad you're... okay. As you can... see... I am... I got my arm all fucked. So. You're welcome."

"Is there any way we can repay you?" the faun asks, and Jeff scoffs.

"Hey kid, we've already patched her up, I say we're done here."

"Don't nobody recall askin' you!" Ripley snaps, massaging the bridge of her nose. "O-okay, faun buddy, tell you what. I was in the forest looking for treasure or, I dunno, something I can sell in town, you know? If you have anything like a map to something interestin', you know... that's... that's fine." She groans softly, biting her lower lip as she stretches her back a little. "And I wouldn't say no to a big sturdy walking stick so I can get back to my car. It's all the fuck the way back at the Mystery Shack."

"I think we can do you one better!" the faun says cheerfully. "Wait right here!"

Within twenty minutes the original faun and a chunky friend of his, a couple of deer, a rabbit, and a terribly confused-looking fox wearing a waistcoat and nothing else return bearing... gifts. The hand-carved walking stick carried by the fox is probably a national treasure, carved with vaguely mystical-looking designs and inlaid with blue-green mother of pearl. One of the deer is carrying an ominously blood-stained wallet in its mouth, and the other one is carrying a pretty random-looking assortment of necklaces dangling from its antlers. The rabbit seems to just be around because everybody else is.

The fauns, though, are holding a small sack between the two of them, dragging it along the ground. Chubby Faun, at least, seems apprehensive about it.

"Should we be doing this?" he hisses, glancing nervously at Ripley. "You know how the unicorns get about people touching their stuff, but if they find out we gave it to a human-"

"They're literally never going to notice it," Original Faun replies, depositing the sack in Ripley's lap. It's heavy and has a lot of hard stuff in it, which is not a welcome thing to have dropped in your lap. "Besides, she saved my life, and now it's never gonna bother us again!"

"Truer words," Ripley nods, awkwardly taking the offerings and sticking them in her backpack for safekeeping. It takes a few minutes to get herself standing- and don't think she doesn't notice the gnomes "helping" by shoving ineffectually at her lower back, she's just too tired to snap at them right now- and by the time she's upright she's leaning so heavily on the walking stick that she hopes _sincerely_ that it's magically strengthened against breaking under her weight.

"Sooo. So. Thank you all for not letting me die," she says solemnly. "Could I get one of you to point me in the right direction to where my car is?"

"You said you're parked at the Mystery Shack, right?" Chubby Faun asks suspiciously. "The old-timers say an asshole with six fingers lives there."

"The old-timers are right," Ripley snorts. "Now Asshole's Brother lives there. It's... it's a... it's... good times."

 "See? Nobody's getting collected for science," Original Faun says in a reassuring tone. Ripley makes a mental note to have a series of serious discussions with Ford when he gets back.

The woodland creatures walk her back to what she supposes is the 'not magic, just trees' part of the forest, and after twenty minutes of stumbling she even gets to a thinner part of the woods where she can see the parking lot for the Mystery Shack.

Unfortunately, she also doesn't think she can walk anymore. The sun still seems to be up in the sky, though, which... is awful. Ripley pulls out her little phone and dials the only number she's got entered into her contacts.

"Change outta yer nice shirt," she slurs the moment she hears it pick up.

"...why?" Stan asks, sounding equal parts mystified and suspicious.

"Cuz I'm covered in blood an' dirt," Ripley admits. The line is silent for a minute.

"Where are you?" he asks finally.

"I can see your car from here," Ripley says, then laughs faintly. "Woods. Not far. Just... mmm... what time is it?"

"Four thirty," Stan growls. Or maybe he just sounds like that from a lifetime of smoking and gargling vinegar. Ripley giggles again at the mental image.

"Okay, so... that makes me... ahh... on the south end of the parking lot... woods... gotta big stick... 'm sitting down," she tells him. She hears a clunky sound, and then she hears the sound of the screen door slamming. "Hello?"

She's still trying to get him to answer when she notices him running up, sweat pouring down his face and into the lapels of his dark suit.

"You're gonna ruin your nice shirt," she points out mildly, hanging up the phone.

"What in the name of Bunyan happened to you?" he asks, and she snorts a laugh at that.

"Chupa. Cabra. Some kinda somethin' stuck me with his venom thing," she says, perking up. "Got a good walkin' stick and some costume jewelry out of it, though, so... it's a wash?"

"For fuck's sake," he says under his breath, crouching down to check her pulse and feel her forehead. "Well, you don't seem like you're dyin'. Can you walk?"

"Was walkin'. Can't now." Ripley paws at her shirt until she catches hold of her pendant; after giving it a solid squeeze for comfort, she lets it go. "Can you get me to m'car so I can drive back to the hotel I'm at?" Stan squints at her.

"You think you're okay to drive?" he asks doubtfully. She bobs her head in a nod, and he shrugs, helping her to her feet. "Well, if you say so. You're the blue one, right?"

"Mm," Ripley agrees, and it seems like a really good idea to put her face down against the nearest firm, warm surface. It smells like a lot of things, and she sort of wishes she had more Earth memories to categorize the smells against, but none of them are necessarily bad individually and none of them are particularly overpowering together. It strikes her that the smell isn't an Earth smell at all- no, half of the smell is the kind of sweaty odor she'd catch off Ford when it's been a while between showers, the other half is the smell in Jheselbraum's personal office, which in itself was half chemicals-burning and half incense-and-herbs. She clutches the pillow tightly and wonders why the bed smells like that.

"Your, ah, your legs ain't movin'."

"We c'n talk 'bout it t'morra," Ripley groans. "Go back t'sleep."

"Lady, you ain't light enough to carry, you're gonna have to walk."

Ripley opens one eye. It's way too bright and hot; she instantly regrets it.

The old man isn't Ford.

"I just love'im a lot," she mumbles, and it turns out she has her feet under her, she can stand, is already standing.

"Yeah, I figured," he replies. It's Stan, she remembers.

"Pushed me off a roof though," she reminds him, and he huffs.

"You told me that already." She's guided into the seat of a car, but it's the wrong side of the car. There's a click from next to her, and she realizes she's buckled in. The door next to her shuts. The door on the other side opens. "Alright, let's get you back to your hotel before the kids see you."

"You're a gift, Stanley Pines," she says, and she drifts off before she can hear him reply.

 

** Dimension 48%W, one year ago **

 

 

The tavern is a rowdy mix of intergalactic ruffians and drunk aliens whose outfits would fit in at a Ren Faire at home. Part of Ripley adores it; the other part still guiltily reminds her that she and Ford probably drink too much.

She hasn't seen a poster with her face on it in this dimension, although there are a fair decent number of them with Ford's. As hard as she's been working to get back to 46*\ and hopefully to Ford, this isn't about him, so she snags a poster as a keepsake and moves on. She's been run out of three dimensions and had horrifying nightmares and disgusting love-notes sent to her in exactly _all of them_ over the past year. She's seen more dead bodies than she wants to remember with that sigil carved into them- the circle, the mouth, the eye.

All love and respect to Ford, but she's not putting up with that demon crush life-ruining bullshit. That man either has the patience of a saint or the obliviousness of a concussed turkey.

She picks a table- not the rowdiest or biggest guys here, but they're definitely the best-armed. She walks straight over like she's got an appointment, and slaps a fist-sized nugget of luminous violet flash-amber onto the table. It's still got the burn marks from where she hacked it off the bigger chunk.

Everyone at the table- the surrounding tables, too, she notices a tad uncomfortably- stops and stares. A rock that size is worth more than your average starship.

"I want to talk to somebody about killing a god," she says quietly.

"Ain't no mercenary foolish enough to do such a thing," clicks a grey-shelled insectoid at the table, one of its massive compound eyes scarred-over, the other one ruby-bright.

"I didn't say I wanted a mercenary to kill a god," Ripley elaborates, dimly aware that she's got the entire room's attention now. "I said I want to talk to somebody about killing a god. If nobody in here's smart enough-"

A hand- well, sort of a hand- lands on her shoulder. The robotics were designed for a Xarlian prosthetic, all twisting digits and twitching hooks. When she turns, though, it's attached to a man's shoulder- a human man.

The eyepatch doesn't quite cover the empty socket and does nothing for the scars etched in a latticework across the side of his face. His mouth is twisted into a permanent half-smirk on that side; the other side is a grim line set against his dark skin.

"If you want to talk to someone about killing a god," he says calmly, "you want to talk to someone that's done it."

"Which god?" she asks, and he breaks out into a mirthless chuckle.

"If you've ever heard the name "Glaurachnast" it means I didn't do my job, woman."

"Fair enough," Ripley concedes, looking the man over. He beckons her over to a corner booth, and she follows. "I'm looking to kill one of the bad old gods. Madness and destruction dealie."

"You can't take anything those ol' demons do personally," he tells her, taking a seat and gesturing for her to do the same.

"Oh, yes, actually. She won't stop fucking with me personally." Ripley takes another, smaller hunk of amber out of her pocket, sliding it across the table to the man. "Natashoggoth the Ever-Voracious. Needs a concrete lesson in personal boundaries and consequences."

"And what kind of hubris a little Earthling like you must be carrying, to think you can teach a lesson to the likes of them?" he asks sharply, his eye narrowed.

"It ain't hubris and it ain't pride," Ripley says, hands flat on the table. "I have a job to do and she's in the way of it."

"Doesn't sound like it's become the all-encompassing vendetta most people have when they start looking to commit deicide," he points out.

"I don't plan on letting her ruin my life to where she's all I got left," Ripley replies grimly. "I got a life to get back to, man. I got family to find. You think I'm gonna let her slow me down on my journey back to him? You think I'm gonna let her get her greasy lil fingers on his mind when my journey's done? Nah. This is gonna _end_."

He regards her silently, and she folds her arms, feeling defensive. "What? You think I don't want it enough or some shit?"

"I was just thinking how nice it is to see someone take a proactive stance on god-killin' for once," he says easily, standing. "Name's Hyde. Come with me, there's a lot we got to talk about if I'm gonna help you murder a god."

 

** Dimension 46*\, today **

 

 

She vaguely remembers being half-carried out of the car and up the steps into Tyler's bed and breakfast. She vaguely remembers the tattered remains of her jacket being peeled off her body, and gentle, calloused hands- almost right, but the wrong shape- removing the makeshift bandages around her bicep. She remembers the hissing intake of breath, the sympathetic _yeesh, willya look at that_ , and the less sympathetic _i told ya not to go into the forest, didn't i?_

She wakes up at midnight, calls Stan. He sounds like he's been crying, he tells her not to come, the police just left and the kids are still awake. She goes back to sleep.

She wakes up at eight in the morning, Tyler's head poking through as he asks if she's okay. She gives him a thumbs up. He lets her know that it sure looks like that funny fella Mr. Pines is sweet on her. She admits that it's a complicated situation. He disappears for a few minutes and comes back with a glass of water, some aspirin, and a bottle of gatorade. He explains that he usually needs that stuff if he had a 'complicated situation' the day before, too. She doesn't know exactly how to respond to that, so she just thanks him, takes the aspirin with the water, and goes back to sleep.

She wakes up at one in the afternoon, her whole body sore. She realizes her phone's dead when she tries to call Stan, so she plugs it in. She drinks the gatorade, takes a shower, notices that someone cleaned her up and changed her bandages last night. She spends the next couple of hours smiling until her face hurts.

Ripley's hungry, but she's not sure how she feels, so she nibbles on some graham crackers and decides to take inventory of the weird collection those woodland creatures gave her, notating it in her journal after an abbreviated description of the fight and a reminder to find out if chupacabras are a thing. Fancy Walking Stick is her favorite, followed by Bloody Wallet With A Two-Dollar Bill And Expired License. The necklaces are mostly trash- flimsy nickel chains and pendants stamped out of pot metal. She only really wears the one necklace, anyway. She picks up the heavy sack the fauns had been carrying and realizes it's actually... pretty heavy. 

A small fortune in gold coins and bullion falls onto her bed when she upends the sack. Ripley throws a pillow over it, offended by its very presence. She grabs her phone, 56% charged, calls Stan.

"Stan, is gold worth a lot right now?" she asks, breathless. He is silent on the other end.

"What kind of question is that?"

"Like..." Ripley pulls out a flat gold bar that says it's a kilogram. She's not a hundred percent sure what that is in pounds. "How much money is a kilogram of gold?"

He exhales very, very slowly.

"It's a fudging lot of money," he says finally.

"I think I've solved one part of the money issue," she admits. She frowns, remembering something from last night. "Stan, why were the cops at your house last night?"

"Somebody chopped Wax Stan's head off," he says morosely, then, "Are you fudging with me about the gold thing?"

"Are the kids listening in? If you say fudge one more time I'll die," she informs him. "So who broke Mabel's art thing?"

"They're looking to find out who did it," Stan says gruffly, then she hears a rustling sound as he yells at someone else, "It's Ripley. No, I'm sure she doesn't. No, I'm sure she didn't. Well _you_ ask her!"

"Hey kid," Ripley says as soon as she hears the phone being passed off. "What's up, Darlin'?"

"It's Dipper," the boy says sternly.

"Okay, Darlin'. Who broke Mabel's art thing? Stan says you two are lookin' into it."

"Well, we're trying to find out. Where were you last night at ten o'clock?" he asks. Ripley blinks.

"Uh? I'm stayin' at the Gravity Springs Boarding House. You know, the lil bed'n'breakfast dealie downtown? That's where I was last night, you can ask Tyler."

"So you've got proof that you were there last night? All night?"

"Dipper, not to be gross, but Stan's the one who drove me home last night. My car hasn't left Tyler's lot since and it's an hour's walk to get to your house," Ripley adds, bemused.

"And I don't suppose you use a left-handed ax," he adds glumly. "And I also guess you don't have something against Stan OR Wax Stan."

"Well, nah, I don't use an ax, but I'm left-handed, so that's one out of two," she says consolingly. "And I don't have anything against Real Stan. To be honest, I'm kind of scared of Wax Stan, but I would never do anything to hurt your sister's feelings, and I bet a dollar that seein' her art destroyed really hurt Mabel, right? You're a good brother to look into this for her, Dipper. And you're a pretty good detective, coz that's two out of four, if I didn't have a good alibi you'd be right to look at me."

"Really?" he asks, perking up slightly.

"Really," she says, smiling. "Here's a question, buddy. Where did the intruder come in? I mean, which door had the signs of a break-in?"

"What do you mean, signs of a break in?" he echoes, confused.

"Well, sure. Somebody broke in to bust up Wax Stan, didn't they? Otherwise somebody would have had to already be in the house when ya'll locked up for the night." He's silent on the other end, which Ripley takes as a cue to continue. "And if there hasn't been a chance for them to leave yet, then they'd still be in your house. So... sounds to me like there'd have been some kinda sign that somebody broke in and then broke back out. Otherwise you're in there with the Wax Murderer!"

Dipper drops the phone with a clatter.

"What the heck did you say to that kid?" Stan asks, after a moment. "He just ran off looking like he ate bad fish."

"Hell if I know, I was just trying to help with his detective stuff," Ripley says, baffled. "I dunno anything about how kids work, Stan, I figured it's babies for like two years and then short-adults til they hit the growth spurt. Anyway, Stan, look... you're right. You were right. The forest is dangerous, even though I found a bunch of gold apparently I also almost died."

"You're serious about the gold thing?!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized neither Ripley nor Ford would know what a chupacabra is after I did some research and discovered they weren't first spotted and named officially until a year after Ripley's abduction in 1994. So!


	5. Chapter 5: Showdown at House of Blue Leaves

Ripley bumps into Wendy on the teen's way out of the gift shop; Ripley grins apologetically and opens the topmost pizza box. "Well, I gotta pay the toll, right?"

"Gotta pay the toll," Wendy agrees, taking a slice of pepperoni and tearing enthusiastically into it.

"You're welcome to stay, I didn't buy five larges just to fatten Stan up," Ripley says enticingly, and Wendy laughs.

"Nah man, I got places to be. Thanks for the slice though. Later!"

"Have fun, be safe," Ripley calls to her, since she can't wave with five pizza boxes in her arms. After a moment of thought, she goes around back to the Shack's home entrance. Ripley leans her forehead against the screen door, hoping to catch someone's eye through the open back door. "Knock knock!"

"Who's there?" Mabel calls out, bursting into a small cheer when she spots Ripley. "Aunt Ripley! You brought pizza? What kind did you get? How come you got five?"

"Well hey there, Munchkin," Ripley grins, stepping inside once Mabel gets the door for her. "Lessee if I can answer in order- Yes, I brought pizza! Two pepperoni, two cheese, and one with literally everything they had except for banana peppers or mushrooms. I got five because I figured you, Dipper, Stan, Soos, and me would eat big and still have leftovers for that good 'cold leftover pizza' breakfast. Soos ain't gone home yet, is he?"

"No, no, Soos is still here!" the girl proclaims, bouncing off the walls as she leads Ripley into the kitchen. "Does Grunkle Stan know you're coming?"

"Well sure, gal, it's weird to just show up places unannounced," Ripley says, shrugging as she puts the pizzas down on the table. "Now, Mabes, I've got some serious stuff to talk to you about, alright."

Ripley pulls out a chair and lets Mabel take a seat, before sitting down in the chair next to her.

"First things first, Mabel, I heard what happened to your artwork, and I'm so sorry that your Wax Stan got broken. Stan told me you and Dipper figured out who did it though? Was it that squirrelly reporter guy?"

"It was the other wax figures!" Mabel whispers, giggling like it's a girl talk type secret. "Dipper figured it out, but then Wax Sherlock Holmes confessed everything! Then we had to destroy all the wax figures because they were really trying to murder Grunkle Stan for real and they wanted to kill us, too. The fight basically wrecked Grunkle Stan's whole parlor, there were broken furniture pieces and wax puddles everywhere!"

"What."

"And then Dipper got into a swords duel with Wax Sherlock Holmes on the roof! That's why the S fell off the sign," Mabel adds importantly.

"I'm very confused," Ripley admits, scratching the back of her head. "Were the figures... haunted?"

"No, they were just cursed," Mabel explains. Like it's obvious.

"Cursed why?" Ripley asks, baffled. Mabel shrugs.

"We never got into that part with them." Her grin fades a little as she examines Ripley's face. "You know, we told Stan and he thought we were just playing around."

"You mean, you told Stan that a dozen wax statues came to life to murder you and he thought you were just playing an elaborate game that destroyed hundreds of dollars worth of furniture and, I dunno, statue bits?" Ripley clarifies, blinking. "What kind of games do you _normally_ play that he thinks that's an appropriate assumption?"

"Do..." Mabel pauses, tilting her head to one side. "Do you believe me, though?"

"Mabel, baby, of course I believe you. I may not understand all the details here, but I can't think of a single reason you'd lie. And if you were gonna lie, I can't imagine making up a story like that." Ripley pats her shoulder. "I'm going to be very firm here though, Muffin. If you ever think you or your brother or Wendy is in danger, tell me or Stan or Soos, okay? An adult. And if you think Stan or Soos are in danger, tell me. Don't just try to fight a bunch of murder-automatons by yourselves again, okay?"

"Okay," Mabel grins widely again, flashing braces.

"And honey, if you ever want to learn how to fight with a sword- you or Dipper, either or both- you know I've won no less than five intergal- I mean, international sword-fighting championships in my day. No wax dumdum is dueling my niece or nephew and surviving," Ripley adds, and she is extremely pleased at the sudden hug she receives. She squeezes Mabel with her uninjured arm, patting her firmly on the head once the girl pulls away. "Now, I had a second very important thing to tell ya, kiddo."

"What's that?" Mabel asks promptly, sitting back in her chair.

"I don't wanna put you off your dinner, but look at this gross wound I got on my arm," Ripley announces, shrugging off her new jacket so that she's just in the sleeveless shirt the salesgirl at the mall called a "sporty tank." Ripley points, a tad unnecessarily, at the huge mass of bandages on  her right bicep. "See that, Mabel? I got attacked in the forest the other day, and it's still sore as... heck." Ripley silently congratulates herself on a close save.

"Wow, what happened to you?" Dipper asks from the doorway. Ripley waves him over, pointing at the bandages.

"Oh, Dipper, just in time. I was tellin' your sister not to go into the forest, as I got attacked in there and I don't want ya'll gettin' hurt, and I don't want to have to kill a bunch of endangered species to save you but I will if I have to. So, you know, don't... don't put  me in the position where I end up clearin' out the endangered species list."

"What attacked you?" Dipper asks, edging closer to Mabel and eyeballing Ripley with an unusual expression Ripley doesn't know how to read.

"A chupacabra," Ripley says glumly. "I really hope they're not, like, critically endangered either, because I will just feel like the worst person  in the world for killin' it."

"Chupacabras are real?!" Dipper squeaks. "And they're as far north as Oregon!? Aunt Ripley, that's incredible! I-I had no idea you follow cryptozoology!"

"I what?" Ripley asks slowly, looking at the unopened pizza boxes. "Wait, ain't cryptozoology like, for animals that don't really exist? Like, I dunno, pegasharks?"

"What's a pegashark?" both children ask simultaneously, before giggling and playfully batting at one another.

"Half winged horse, half great white, ALL PREDATOR!" Ripley announces, spotting Stan and Soos in the doorway. "Good golly, ya'll, we've been waitin' on you two to start dinner!"

"Mrs. Pines, you brought pizza!" Soos says, eyes shining with something very akin to love. "I-I mean- Mrs. Ripley, you brought pizza!"

"You kids get the plates," Stan grumbles, plopping himself into a chair across the table from Ripley as the twins- plus Soos, for some reason- scamper around grabbing plates and napkins. He's in what appears to be his after-work uniform- boxers, slippers, undershirt from the day's suit, the fez with the little goldfish thing on it. "Wasn't expecting you yet."

"I didn't know how long it would take to make five fresh pizzas," Ripley admits. "The kids seem wound up, what's the occasion?"

"Kids are constantly wound up," Stan says, grabbing a slice of Almost Everything pizza and biting into it with gusto.

"We're definitely not going to Gideon's Tent of Telepathy later!" Mabel crows, sticking a plate under Stan's face before any more pizza grease can drip onto the table.

"Oh, you're... not? It's alright, it's a bit of a stage show," Ripley says, blinking as she grabs herself a slice of pepperoni and a slice of plain cheese. "Not as good as the Mystery Shack, but it's alright. Gideon's a real di- uh, dinglehopper."

"You've been to that punk Gideon's?" Stan asks, eyes narrowed.

"Well, sure," Ripley admits cheerfully, before peering through her glasses at Stan's face. "Eat your dinner, punkin-patch."

"Hey, Grunkle Stan," Dipper interrupts around a mouthful of pizza. Ripley's amused to see that the boy went for the same kind of pizza Stan did. "Ripley found a real chupacabra in the forest!"

"And she's gonna teach us how to swordfight because she's a dueling champion!" Mabel adds, pausing in the process of picking off all the pepperoni slices to put them on her plate. Ripley isn't sure why Mabel's doing that when there's two cheese pizzas that have never been touched by a pepperoni, but she figures it's some kind of child eating thing.

"Aw, doods, you should totally swordfight a chupacabra," Soos says, raising both his slices of pizza at once.

"Okay, first of all, there's no such thing as a chupacabra," Stan says, giving Ripley the evil eye. "Ripley, I saw your arm when I changed your bandages, that was a coyote bite."

"...a coyote bite," Ripley repeats slowly, looking around. "But, Stan, I'm pretty sure coyotes only got four legs-"

"Coyotes are a real and dangerous threat," Stan says sternly. "So you kids stay out of the forest so you don't get mauled and start hallucinatin' like your Aunt Ripley here, got it?"

"But Grunkle Stan-" Dipper begins, obviously frustrated.

"Kids, don't argue about safety rules," Ripley says firmly, putting her pizza down. "I won't be teachin' swordsmanship to anybody who doesn't follow safety rules, an' stayin' out of the forest is a big safety rule."

"But-" Dipper tries, then sighs heavily, putting his plate down and standing. "Fine. I'm not all that hungry, anyway."

"Me neither," Mabel chimes in, quickly stuffing the rest of her pizza in her mouth so she can stand with Dipper.

"Well, you kids wash up if you're going somewhere," Ripley says uncertainly. She glances over at Soos, who's on his fourth slice. "Are you... going with the kids, Soos?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah!" Soos stands, snagging a slice of the Almost Everything pizza. "Well, uh, see you two lovebirds later, doods!"

Ripley drums her fingers on the tabletop, looking down. "So... are chupacabras real or not?" she asks Stan once she's sure the kids (and Soos) are out of earshot.

"Pretty sure it wasn't a porcupine did that to your arm, Ripley," Stan hisses. "Of course they're real, but they're not supposed to be. It's one of F- one of you-know-who's stupid anomalies! Now the kid's gonna go out looking for one!"

"But we both told him not to," Ripley says, holding up a finger on one hand and pointing with the other hand at her bandages. "I mean, coyote bite over here looks scary and painful. Plus, you're the, like, discipline adult. I'm the fun adult. If we're both givin' 'em a rule they'll definitely obey it."

"You've really never been around kids before," Stan says, affronted. "And you're not the fun adult, I'm the fun adult. You're just some weird adult that keeps showing up!"

"Well yeah, but I'm not the one who sends people to their rooms, I'm the cool swordfighting Auntie," Ripley says smugly. "Eat your dinner, punkin-patch, we got lamps to install once the kids are out of the house."

 

  **Dimension 48%W, three months ago**

 

 

Ripley walks barefoot into the temple, wrapped in a yellow-green cowl, hyper-aware of the strange slurping noises and nauseating moans emanating from the faithful and from the sacrifices splayed before them.

"Greetings, Sister Savage," the high priestess says from the altar on the dais in the middle of the room. Ripley tries very hard not to look at what's left of the person on it. "We've been expecting you."

"H-how?" Ripley asks softly, startled. "I-I didn't even know I was coming before today."

"Our Lady of Eternal Devouring houses her physical form here," the woman says, putting a guiding hand on Ripley's lower back as she leads her through the long, torchlit room. Ripley steals a glance at the woman's face- like Ripley, there is a line of scar tissue across her cheekbones and nose. Unlike Ripley, the flesh of her face below that line has been completely removed, the glossy muscle and peeking bone of her face twitching and moving with every word. "We are her most sacred and devoted daughters, all of us hand-selected by the Lady herself to be molded in her image when she desires passage through the physical realm. She has known this day would come from the moment she chose you as a mortal consort, and we have all planned to welcome you in accordance with her wishes."

"Oh," Ripley says, at a loss for words. "Uh, okay. So... so she's not here, though? She said- she said she'd meet me here, is all. Am I in the wrong-"

"So eager," the priestess says, flashing a skinless grin that makes Ripley very uncomfortable. "Our Lady was right. You are adorable enough to eat."

She wraps her arm around Ripley's waist as they walk. "She will come when you are ready. First, let me take you to the sacred chamber where her physical form, devoid of her spirit, rests. Time spent in contemplation will prepare you for what lies ahead." The priestess gives Ripley a squeeze. "This is the pinnacle of your mortal life."

"Yeah, I know," Ripley says softly. "I-I just-"

Whatever she was going to say dies in her throat as she is led into a huge room ringed with silver mirrors, each one just warped enough that Ripley can't quite identify herself in her reflections. In the center of a smoldering pit of coals is an eight-foot ceramic statue of Natashoggoth herself, one hand outstretched as if offering it to someone. The surface is glistening brown and mottled with green, and the mouths and eyes and teeth that make up her body seem to shift in the firelight. Much of the statue, including the outstretched hand, is dripping with blood.

"Beautiful, is she not?" the priestess asks knowingly. Ripley nods silently, eyes huge.

"Why is she a... a statue, though?" she asks, despite herself.

"She enjoys the feeling of mortal flesh, of receiving pleasure and pain the way her immortal form cannot," the priestess explains. "Like many of the gods, she inhabits the willing flesh of her servants and leaves a glorious husk behind. Some lesser beings become wooden effigies of themselves, and some of the gods leave stone carvings behind. Our Lady is a being of the sacred blend of life and unlife, tempered through the fire of passion."

Ripley pulls the cowl off, unable to take her eyes off the salacious tilt of the mouths set in the statue's face. "Oh. That... explains a lot."

She walks forward, looking upwards, until she's close enough to touch the open hand of the goddess. She's dimly aware that she's breathing too fast, making herself lightheaded, and she's also vaguely aware of something hurting the soles of her feet and the smell of cooking meat. None of that seems important.

She hesitates, for a second, as she imagines shame, judgement from the eyes of the priestess still in the room, but she's so close and she can't stop herself.

Ripley presses the side of her face against the open ceramic palm, wet and sticky with blood, the heat from the floor rising. She lets out a soft, shuddering sigh, _home not alone held safe wanted loved_ , and closes her eyes.

"I'll just leave you to have some privacy, then," the priestess says behind her. "When Our Lady returns to the temple, you'll be the first to know."

"Okay," Ripley says numbly, standing perfectly still until she hears the door of the chamber shut.

It feels like an eternity, but it's only a few seconds. Ripley tears herself away, dashing over the hot coals to sit on a marble bench and clamping a hand over her mouth as she looks at the burnt wreck her feet have become.

 _Oh Jesus, I'm not drunk enough for this_ , she thinks miserably, taking a bottle out of her pack with shaking hands and pouring some of the gel inside onto her feet. It hurts like fuck to massage it into the blistering burns, but she knows from experience that it'll heal faster and cleaner than anything else, with only minimal scarring. She takes care to wrap her feet in clean bandages before pulling on a pair of socks- it'll be so, so bad taking them off later, but it won't be as painful as letting anything else happen to her feet before the burns heal up more.

She carefully-carefully-carefully pulls on a pair of supple leather boots and stands, wincing. It can't be helped.

Ripley pulls out Ol' Sparky and lights up the plasma sword, glaring at her reflection in the nearest mirror.

"Well, let's start redecorating," she tells it grimly, walking in a careful line as she slashes her weapon across and into the mirrored walls of the chamber. She doesn't stop until every mirror is warped and shattered and useless. Ripley exhales, avoiding the sight of the statue in the center of the room. "That does feel better."

She deactivates her sword and stashes it safely in its sheath, pulling on a thick pair of protective gauntlets before tying her hair up in a tidy little topknot.

"Time to get to work," she mutters to herself, opening the chamber door. She kills the first nun with her bare hands and snatches up the long, torturous-looking carving knives she'd been using on some unfortunate victim. Four more die messy deaths once she's spotted. She's sure she could leave if she wanted- she thinks she would have time to run if she didn't make sure the sacrifices were put out of their misery- but she's not trying to leave anytime soon, and within ten minutes of her leaving the chamber she's surrounded, twenty-eight of the terrible nuns of Natashoggoth plus the high priestess herself.

"Your lust has run to madness, Sister Savage," the high priestess says coldly.

"Sounds about right," Ripley replies flatly. "You ready to die, Mother Superior?"

 "You fool. You are surrounded by our entire order!" she snaps.

"Then your entire order will die today," Ripley promises softly.

"There's the pigheaded brashness Our Lady spoke of," the priestess sneers. "But she only wants you alive, Sister Savage, not _whole_. We outnumber you. You cannot win. What you can do is choose to give in without losing too many of your limbs."

"Natashoggoth told you that bullshit line would work on me?" Ripley asks, flashing a feral grin. "She really must not know me very well, huh?"

 "Sisters!" the priestess roars. "Bring her to heel!"

The nuns- violent and vicious and good at taking apart a bound victim- crowd Ripley, and for the first time in years she remembers the thrill of the arena, the knowledge that she's very good and very confident and that dumb luck might roll out the end for her. She sets her mouth into a grim smile and gets to work.

 

**Dimension 46*\, today**

 

 

"How's the arm?" Stan asks, glancing over from where he's got Ol' Sparky open on his desk, with the slightly unhelpful diagram Ripley tried to draw for him next to the partial diagram Ford left in his old journal.

"Sore, healing," Ripley grunts, looking up to meet his gaze. "I should be good to fight by tomorrow."

"You're not supposed to be fighting anything, remember?" Stan reminds her sourly. "How am I supposed to finish this stupid portal if you keep getting shanked by mythical creatures?"

"Aw, Stan," she croons. "You say the nicest things."

"Shut up," he grumbles, going back to work. He has to admit, installing the floodlamps was a great idea, even if the moment she did so Ripley yelped and started swatting at the many, many spiderwebs with a broom. She had put him to work getting acquainted with her portal while she spent a couple hours beating cleanliness back into the massive underground lab, cursing the filthy conditions the Pines brothers are somehow okay with.

Stan looks up from the innards of her space sword and realizes he's staring only when she turns and gives him a surprised look. "You alright there, Stan? I told you, you can't break it worse than I can fix, so just-"

"No, that's not- I was just takin' a mental break," he says, looking back down at the parts. He hadn't needed a lot of help figuring it out- years of being tinkered with by Ford made it easier to understand for someone who's spent three decades up to his elbows in Ford's tech. Stan glances up at her again, and she's still looking at him, leaning on the broom.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"Are all those scars from whatever you and Ford did on the other side?" he asks, and she looks down like she hadn't noticed before that every part of her skin that isn't bruised and scraped to hell from her chupacabra thing is littered with scars, some fresh and some that look older than the twins.

"Well, most of it," she says, lifting the collar of her shirt to peek down the front of her chest. "Some of this mess is from since I got back, but yeah, I suppose. Why?"

"So Ford's going to come home looking like he was chewed up by a meatgrinder?" Stan asks, and it hurts to think about, even now.

"Well, maybe, but when I last saw him naked he was mostly in good shape," Ripley says, bemused. "Ford's our sharpshooter, I'm the idiot who runs in with a sword. Anyway, don't worry about it, Stan. Ford spent less time over there than I did and he was never a slave 'cept for the part where he met me, so he didn't get too banged up before we got together. And after we got together, I made sure to watch out for him."

"Oh," Stan says, trying to fit all that information into the space he reserves for what he thinks his brother would be now.

"Yeah. Anyway, what about you? You look like you've been in a scrap or two," Ripley points out, bending over to pick up an empty can. "Stan, this soda can is hellaciously old."

"It's not mine," Stan says defensively. "For all you know it's Ford's, he's a fucking pig."

"That's true. Dipshit," she says fondly, tossing the can into the garbage bag. "You know I was with Ford when he got his first tattoo, right?"

"Ford's got tattoos?" Stan asks sharply, eyes wide. "That square?"

"We got so wasted I'm not even sure which of the tattoos came first, but yeah, he's got ink. They're all stupid tattoos, too, so you can always hold that over him." Ripley pulls at her shirt to expose the top half of the rabbit on her hip. "Got this at the same time, which neither of us even remembers."

"That's... objectively terrible," Stan says after a moment, averting his eyes.

"Eh, you know." Ripley gets back to work; Stan finds himself unable to.

"So... space gladiators, huh?"

"Mmhmm."

"And then he got himself married to another adventurer type," he adds.

"Well, when you put it that way."

"But you guys never had any kids?"

"Um, no, not really a good place to have kids, running for our lives in the multiverse, trying to avoid all the space cops," Ripley says, peering up at him.

"So how did you guys, you know, not get you pregnant?" he presses, curious despite himself.

Ripley stops what she's doing to stare at him.

"We didn't have sex," she says frankly, after a while. Stan blinks.

"What, like- not even once?"

Ripley opens and closes her mouth a couple of times, taken completely aback.

"You know Ford," she says finally, shrugging. "We never really talked about it, but, uh. He's a certain kinda way and I'm a certain kinda way. Sex ain't his thing. Sex ain't my thing. So we didn't make it a thing."

"So you were married for five years and my brother's still a virgin," Stan clarifies, not noticing that Ripley's patience is already completely evaporated.

"Virginity ain't real, Stan. Half the human worlds I been on don't even have a concept of virginity!" Ripley snaps. "And that doesn't even matter! Christ, Stanley, it's none of your business whether either of us was interested in fucking. What's up your back about this? Why are you even asking?"

"I'm sorry, for fuck's sake, I didn't realize I was being an asshole," Stan snaps back. "You don't have to tear my fucking throat out."

"Right." Ripley stands, dusting her hands off. "Well, at least asking inappropriate questions is something you and Ford have in common. I'm heading home."

"Wait-" Stan is on his feet to stop her and he's not even sure why. "Wait, Ripley. I'm sorry for the third degree, alright? I just- Ford ends up in some kind of living hell dimension and he still ends up better than me, you know? I've spent thirty years useless in his lab, pretending to be him, and he ends up living the life I wanted, alright? It's fucking ironic, alright?"

"You wanted living hell dimension, Stan?" Ripley asks gently, arms folded.

"No, you know what I mean," Stan says irritably, looking down. "Adventure and mayhem and a beautiful woman at my side. He left me behind because he said he was too good for that life, that it was childish. And I end up with the weird lonely science shit and he ends up a married criminal adventurer. It's just... real fuckin' ironic that the only thing I wanted that he _didn't_ get was kids."

"It is pretty ironic," Ripley admits. "God, Stan, it's like sometimes I can't tell if you're both two halves of the same idiot or if you're both just identical idiots."

"Okay...?"

"It's just- you know he was jealous of you too, right? God forbid that idiot ever self-examine his feelings, but anytime he got stuck he blamed himself, and every time he got conned he'd talk about how you would've been so much smarter than him about it. And that idiot would cry about missing you and then when he realized he was caught he would try to act like he didn't know it was you he wanted. He would have cut off his left arm to be back with you in an instant, Stan, even if that was the arm I was holding. Even if it meant leaving me beh-"

She cuts herself off, and Stan doesn't know what to say.

They stare at each other for a while, until Ripley runs a hand through her hair. "I really should go."

"Shouldn't I fix your sword thing?" Stan asks quietly.

"It'll keep," she says, sniffing.

"Do you want to, I dunno, stick around and watch a movie? I got the first two Jurassic Park movies on VHS."

"There's more than one?" she asks, perking up. "Well shit, can't say no to that."

 

** Dimension 48%W, three months ago **

 

 

Coated in gore and surrounded by the fresh corpses of twenty-eight evil nuns, Ripley points the tip of her blade just into the skin of the high priestess's throat.

"You should tell me your name before you die," Ripley says, breathing hard. "So you don't get forgotten like your sisters here."

"G-Goanna," the priestess says, choking on a mouthful of blood and smiling. "You're everything sh-she said you were, Sister Sav-"

Ripley ends it, leaving the blade behind when she realizes that it's stuck in the vertebra.

"Having fun, One Sword?"

Ripley turns, her whole body trembling with a sort of aching deep-tissue exhaustion, the kind that promises a long and delicious sleep.

Every one of Natashoggoth's mouths are smiling. Ripley smiles back.

"I just killed everybody here, Tasha, why you smilin' for?" she asks.

"Including the sacrifices? You just spilled the blood of fifty people in my temple. That's not an act of war, that's a wedding present," Natashoggoth purrs.

"No- no, see, they don't count because I was just ending their suffering, which you-" Ripley stammers, and the eight-foot figure reaches forward, puts one massive hand against Ripley's face. Everything Ripley meant or wanted to say comes to a shuddering halt as a filthy thumb the size of Ripley's wrist runs across the scar on Ripley's face.

"Nobody has ever defied the urge to become one of my Daughters," the ~~goddess~~ ~~demon~~ chaos entity whispers huskily. "Normally all I have to do is whisper it across their minds and they cut their own faces off before I have a chance to tell them to do it. Do you know how exciting it is to find a mortal who is even capable of disobeying?"

"I don't care-" Ripley starts, and the mouth on Natashoggoth's chest where a human would have a heart opens and an impossibly long tongue wraps once around her throat before teasing lightly at Ripley's trembling lips, which have clamped shut in terrified anticipation.

"You are so close, One Sword," the entity promises, massive hands lifting Ripley completely off the ground. "You're almost there to becoming one of us, don't you see? You struggle because you think it's a choice between staying yourself and giving in. Ripley, giving in would strip you of everything that makes you perfect. Be yourself. Be the purest you, Ripley. Jump in and join us."

There are six eyes on the front of Natashoggoth's torso, dotting the spaces between mouths. They're all looking Ripley in the eyes. It's extremely disconcerting, and Ripley can't turn away so she shuts her eyes tightly.

Thick fingers let her hair out of the bun, raking against her scalp hard enough to draw blood.

"Just think," the mouth closest to Ripley's ear whispers. "You could be as powerful as Bill Cipher. Together, we could overthrow his rule, you and I. You could save your beloved six-fingered mortal from Bill and keep him all to yourself. Who knows? Maybe one day you will be able to do what Cipher failed to accomplish, and turn Stanford Pines into the monster he was truly meant to be."

Ripley lets out a muffled whimper. The entity must think she's close to agreeing, because Ripley is suffocating, every part of her surrounded, _encased_ , in filth and blood and teeth and tongues.

There are six eyes on the front of Natashoggoth's torso, but Ripley's only got two hands, and she refuses to vomit as she punches her hands into eyes the size of cantaloupes, fluid exploding all over her as they rupture with a gloopy _pop_ , as her hands tighten on what she thinks _oh Jesus god help me_ would be optic nerves and she _yanks_.

"Fuck you!" Ripley screams, even as the shrieking goddess throws her bodily across the room. She lands with a hard and blinding crack in the side of her ribs; she's fucked, she's so fucked now.

Natashoggoth is howling and clutching at two bloody sockets but she is covered in eyes that can see perfectly and are murderously focused on Ripley.

 **"You will beg for a death that will never come!"** all of her mouths shriek in unison. Ripley gets to her feet. It doesn't matter that they hurt, that her body hurts, that everything hurts. It won't matter if she can't end this bullshit now.

"You shoulda kept his name outta your fuckin' mouth," Ripley snarls, spitting blood. Her sword is in her hand in a fraction of a moment, and it makes a perfect arc of light as she swings it in a motion that would bisect a living being. It goes through the physical body of Natashoggoth, and even though it burns away three more eyes and two of her mouths, the chaos being is still standing, hands outstretched.

"Fool! Your mortal weapon is nothing to a god!"

Ripley swings again, impaling Natashoggoth through the center of her chest, and the goddess reaches out and snatches Ripley's shoulder, squeezing until her massive fingers burn holes through her clothing and pierce the skin.

"Oh, no, you g-got me," Ripley sneers sarcastically, flipping on the portal generator and coursing its energy through the still-lit blade buried in Natashoggoth's chest. "What am I gonna do?"

She is aware of screaming, of hands frantically trying to bat her away, clawmarks opening on her face and arms as she forces the blade down, slightly across, up to exit through the crook of the being's neck: not a perfect triangle, maybe, but a big enough portal to let a person through. Crumbs and chunks of Natashoggoth's physical body start falling through at the edges, like water down a drain. Ripley turns on the wrist-mounted portal dialer and puts it on shuffle, the portal destinations changing hundreds of times per second.

"Everything that you are is being scattered across infinity, gal," Ripley breathes out, eyes lit by the glow of the portal. "There's never gonna be enough of you in one place to even recognize that you're broken. You are so, so, so fucked. There's nobody left who'll even remember your name. Nobody but me, gal."

Natashoggoth's face- well, the face that Ripley thinks of as her 'main' face- twists in fury and agony. The arm that hasn't already shattered picks Ripley up by the neck, squeezing hard enough to bruise, and slams Ripley's face against her mouth, taking advantage of Ripley's startled cry to shove her tongue down her throat in a final act of violation before that arm, too, crumbles to dust. Natashoggoth bites down on her own tongue, separating it from her mouth and leaving Ripley to choke on the floor, gagging and clawing at her mouth to pull the wriggling, severed appendage out.

Ripley blacks out, she doesn't know how long, but when she is awake and aware the portal is still open and there's nothing left of Natashoggoth, just a heavy, nauseous feeling in the pit of Ripley's stomach and the taste of acidic bile and coppery blood in her mouth.

Ripley opens the portal dialer on her wrist. She is exhausted and she can't stay here any more.

Her eyes light up when she sees 46*\ on the list of available dimensions. She dials it in and steps through.

Ripley Savage, god-killer, stumbles out onto a beach in New Jersey that she vaguely recognizes. She collapses onto the sand near a boarded-up cave entrance and sleeps like the dead. It's only when she wakes up that she realizes that every single one of her wounds has healed, and she decides to blame their disappearance on the disappearance of Natashoggoth's evil influence.


	6. Chapter 6: Massacre at Two Pines

** Dimension 48%W, one year ago **

 

Sweat rolling into her eyes and off the tip of her nose, Ripley picks up the heavy iron practice sword and tries again. Hyde's blade snaps against hers, and it drops to the ground.

"How are you alive?" Hyde barks. "You have the upper body strength of a corpse, woman!"

"Plasma sword weighs like five pounds and it's all in the handle, man," Ripley spits out. "You don't need to be a bodybuilder to use it, and I'm not gonna be this tired from fightin' with it!"

"You think that sword's the only weapon you'll ever use in your life? You think you'll only ever be in your best condition when you face an enemy? You think you'll be subject to normal shit like physics when you're in the Nightmare Realm?" he roars back, his non-prosthetic hand pointing at her. "Pick up your sword and do it right this time!"

It's been two weeks of this and Hyde is a real bastard, stricter and harsher than Devaaki ever was. Hyde doesn't care about the graceful swordplay and dancing footwork Devaaki taught her, either- the first time he asked Ripley to show him her moves, she didn't get to land a hit before he thwacked the light wooden practice sword out of her hands and started bawling at her that if she wasn't going to be serious he wasn't going to waste his time. The only good thing about how hard she's been working is that for the first time in a year she's been too exhausted to stay up late fretting about whether she'll have bad dreams or not. The only good thing about Hyde's punishing morning schedule is that he wakes her up so early that she's too tired to remember any dreams she has the night before.

It is hours later and Ripley is still in the crude shower when Hyde's (lover? boss? assistant?) doctor friend pokes his head in.

"There's a br-bruise on your bu-urgh-utt that's shaped like Michigan," he says abruptly, scaring the bejesus out of Ripley. She turns and starts flicking water at his face, soaking his spiky hair.

"If you keep making those vomit noises I'm gonna end up vomiting, I told you like a hundred times," Ripley says, exasperated. "Cut that out, Sanchez."

"Rude! That's, th-that is, that's rude, okay, thi-urp-is is-is-is how I talk," he protests. She turns the water off and he flings a towel at her head. "Dinner's up, k-kiddo."

"I'm older than you!" she calls after him, drying her hair off.

"Y-y-yeah well, in Earth years you're like an infant, so!"

By the time Ripley's dressed and sitting down to eat, their discussion- like usual- has devolved into some other petty argument, the both of them gleefully bickering for the sake of fighting. In training, Hyde can barely keep the two of them in line. He knows better than to even try when they're off the clock. Usually they can keep their misbehavior to slapfights and a series of escalating dimensional travel insults- they had to come up with ground rules after "playful tussling" resulted in a dislocated shoulder (on Ripley) and a chemical burn the size and shape of a t-bone steak (on Sanchez.)

"I'm just sayin', so what if you _can_ make the portal generator a gun? Portal guns are stupid. Portal swords are the way to go," Ripley says around a mouthful of noodles and whatever that sauce is that Hyde makes out of the local herbs.

"Uh, clearly you're an idiot because portal swords are lame," Sanchez retorts, shaking a fork at her across the table. "And your portals always open up like, blue. That's bullshit. Th-that's bullshit."

"Oh, yeah, like lime green is a good color for a portal," Ripley argues. "Your portals look like pustulent jello shit."

"Can the two of you knock it off?" Hyde asks wearily from the head of the table. "I'm trying to eat."

"Yeah, what would you know? Y-your, your portals look like toilets flushing, okay, that's what- that's what you're throwing yourself into, every time."

"Hah! Please. This coming from a dorky wiener who hasn't even seen a Globnar yet."

"You're the dorky wiener who hasn't been to Blips and Chitz, like, once, at all, even."

There's a clang at the end of the table; Hyde stands, noodles and sauce spilling onto the table where he slammed his plate down.

"I'm going to bed. Rick, it's your turn to do the dishes."

 They wait in silence until the door closes.

"I'll do the dishes," Ripley says decisively. "You go talk to him, he actually likes you."

"Do-urrrgh-on't tell me what to do, dumbass," Sanchez says dismissively, standing.

"I'll do what I want, shitferbrains," she tells him. They give each other a thumbs' up before he leaves the room to look for Hyde. Ripley honestly doesn't mind doing the dishes when she's this tired- and, unexpected bonus, she'll finally get a chance to check out the old ruins on the other side of the forest that borders Hyde's (farm? dojo?) home. She noticed it on the first day that Hyde brought her in, a wide flat structure being taken apart by the local trees and vines and grasses. For whatever reason, Hyde just really never wants to talk to her or Sanchez about it- although, to be fair, Sanchez couldn't give less of a fuck about the ruins. Hyde just tells her that it's a dangerous place and that there's no point in going somewhere she'd most likely get hurt. Ripley doesn't mind getting a little hurt in the pursuit of cool knowledge, and besides, it's more than a little insulting to know that Hyde thinks that would deter her.

Ford would love it, though. Ford would spend all weekend cataloguing every room, every stone, every chipped shard of pottery. Ripley spent an entire day in her last dimension painstakingly sewing extra pages into the binding of the journal Ford gave her, just so she wouldn't have to give it up anytime soon, and she hasn't had anything new at all to write down in it since she put down some brief descriptions of Hyde and Sanchez and the work she's been doing since she got here. Obviously, Ford will want to know about any cool ruins Ripley's run across in her travels.

Ripley checks the workout room, the large front yard, the meditation room. She doesn't see Hyde, so he really must be in bed.

It's a quiet hike. The forest is not silent, and she deeply appreciates the faint birdsong, the buzzing of insects, the distant crackle of small animals darting through the undergrowth. The air is clean and smells faintly of pine and moss, although she supposes it wouldn't be pine here at all.

Parts of the roof are caved in, and the moonlight overhead is enough to show a lot of the room. Ripley lights a small chemtorch, holding it out at arm's length as she steps closer to the dais in the middle of the room, and the partially collapsed table on it. There's a whole lot of debris littering the floor, which she ignores until she gets to the table.

Everything here is stone and must have been abandoned for hundreds of years- the floor, she imagines, would have been smooth, and is now broken up into heavily rounded cobblestones that are several inches from one another.

She runs a hand through the material on the table, frowning as she wipes off her hand and takes out her journal to write herself the first note.

_Bone fragments. Iron or similar tool fragments- knives?_

_Altar. This was a temple._

Ripley pauses, looking around. Yeah, this was definitely a temple. It looks like a temple. There's... remains. She peers closer at the surface of the altar and wonders how long ago this temple was last in use, if the stone still looks like it's got the dark stains of ancient blood on it. She pockets the longest piece of what she's pretty sure is a ceremonial knife, the rust dulling the edge and obscuring the engraved symbols.

"No wonder Hyde hates this place," Ripley mutters. She stands to go- it feels disrespectful to be here, to be honest- but something shimmering and silver catches her eye in a chamber, just beyond. Ripley hesitates- it seems really wrong to be here, come to think of-

Of-

You know who would want you to go look at that room? Ripley thinks.

Ol' Six-fingered Stanford. Ford. Ford would want you to go. In fact, he might even need you to. It's a big multiverse, she thinks in a voice that sounds almost like her own but not quite.

It's a very big place. He might be there. Trapped. Helpless. You need to go in there to save him. **You need to go in there right now.**

Ripley takes a few tentative steps forward, before she squares her shoulders and walks confidently into the chamber. Up close, she can see that it's a big room full of marble-looking benches. The walls are coated in silver mirrors; miraculously, they all seem perfectly intact. She sees herself reflected around her hundreds of times over.

There's a flat, circular pit full of black powder in the middle of the room. She can imagine that normally something would be in there, but when she puts her pen in the pit she realizes it's coal dust.

"Fascinating," Ripley says softly, before writing down a sentence or two in her journal. She looks around- not much else here- and puts the journal away. She's not sure why she felt so sure that Ford was here, but it is the kind of thing Ford would like to explore, so she's glad she had the chance to **sit down**.

Ripley's knees buckle and she drops onto one of the marble benches, blinking.

She is _very_ tired, after all. Maybe she should put her head down for a little bit. It couldn't hurt to stretch out a little bit and **sleep**.

 

**Dimension 46'\, today**

 

 

"Hey, Aunt Ripley," Dipper says from the couch as she walks in. Ripley blinks, looking around.

"That's... odd. I was expecting to be tackled by a little girl," she says, and he sighs heavily.

"She's on a date with Gideon," he grumbles.

"What? No she isn't. She's too young for dates, right?" Ripley frowns, looking around for Stan. "Twelve's not old enough to date. Also, isn't Gideon like... eight? Nine? That's way too much of an age difference."

"Oh, like you being married to my Grunkle Stan who's like thirty years older than you isn't too much of an age difference," Dipper mutters.

"That's rude. Wow. Wow," Ripley says, mildly stunned. "First of all, it's not thirty years, it's twenty-five years."

"That's not better," he points out.

"Second of all, Dippity-doo-dah, it... felt... like less, at the time," Ripley says, flustered. No good way to tell a kid that due to dimensional time-fumble shenanigans it was only eight years, especially if you're telling a kid that three is too many. "Look, this is not a conversation you or I want to have, let's drop it and never speak of it again, okay? Okay."

"Okay," Dipper says, wrinkling his nose. "What are you doing here? Grunkle Stan's giving a tour."

"I'm here to bond with my nephew," Ripley announces grandly. "Come on, buddy. I asked Stan and he said I could take you guys to the lake. Which, I guess, it's just you and not you and Mabel."

"Fishing?" Dipper asks hesitantly.

"I don't know much about fishing," Ripley admits, after a moment. "Seems like an uncle thing, though... you know, the lake seems pretty dangerous compared to, I dunno, going into town and seeing if the milkshakes are any good at Greasy's."

"That is a good point," Dipper says, looking up at her over his book.

"Safety is paramount," Ripley adds primly. "I'll go catch Stan up on the new plan while you get your shoes on, honey." She fumbles her way into the museum part of the house, looking for the elder Pines. He is in the middle of a tour though- it's the good part, with Sascrotch- so she heads to the gift shop and lets Wendy know she's taking Dipper to the diner and to please tell Stan when he's got a moment.

This is much better than the lake, Ripley thinks to herself once she and Dipper are both buckled in and on the short drive over to Greasy's. Although the silence quickly becomes too much for her, and she slaps at the radio until it starts playing the local stations. She proceeds to jab at buttons until the first familiar song comes on, a Creedence Clearwater Revival song that instantly puts a smile on Ripley's face.

"Don't go out tonight, well it's bound to take your life! There's a bathroom on the right," she sings, glancing over to see if Dipper's into it.

"You even like the same gross old music," he mumbles into the heel of his palm, staring out the window. "I mean, I can tell you were married, I just can't somehow believe it."

"Creedence isn't gross or old," Ripley says, mildly pleased. Ford hadn't even known the name of the band when she'd tried humming a few hits at him. "Well, old, yes, okay."

"Stan doesn't listen to the radio when he's driving, though, he says it's too distracting."

"Stan's an old guy with an even older guy hiding inside him when he's driving," Ripley declares, pulling in to a parking spot with, um, a perfect nine-point turn.

"You say that like you didn't just drive ten miles under the speed limit the whole way and then parked like the world's oldest grandma," Dipper points out. "So the exact opposite of Stan's driving, actually."

"You're only being this sassy because you know you're cute enough that I can't even get mad about it," Ripley says, shaking a finger at him.

"Maybe," he says with the tiniest smirk. Ripley chuckles to herself as they go inside the diner. The boy really has no idea how much like Ford he is, and the thought of Ford getting to meet this kid, getting to bond with him, is ridiculously charming.

She can feel the smile slip off her face as they take a seat in a booth. She's not sure how long she's supposed to be pretending to these kids that Ford doesn't exist, if Stan's endgame is bringing Ford home. She realizes she's not even entirely sure what she is and isn't allowed to tell the kids.

"Aunt Ripley," Dipper says, his voice shaking her out of her reverie. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Only if I can ask an equal question," she says immediately. To his credit, he seems to ponder the question for a while before nodding. She gives him a nod as she opens up the menu.

"What are you hiding?" he asks. She puts down her menu to level as pointed a stare as she can muster in the face of his, well, face.

"There's an entire spectrum of human adult experience that I don't want you to have to know about yet," she says finally. "And if you want to ask a more specific question you're giving me a second, equally specific question." This seems to quiet him down, at least until the waitress is done taking their orders- cookie dough with extra whip for Ripley, double chocolate with normal whip for Dipper. Ripley bets anything Ford would order the same thing, because that would literally kill her with its cuteness.

"I'm not asking my second question until you ask your first one," he says quietly.

"That's fair." Ripley thinks for a moment or two, but she doesn't know what's right in this situation. She has a vague understanding that a child up to a certain age simply can't grasp certain ideas, but she's not sure what the cutoff is. And if there would be a kid who seems like he's able to understand some pretty adult stuff, she imagines a boy who seems so similar to her forty-something genius would have to be able to handle it.

The waitress- Susan, Ripley notices the nametag- puts their milkshakes down in front of them. "Anything else, dears?"

"Order of fries, please," Ripley says, looking at Dipper. "How about you, Dipper?"

"Order of fries," he echoes. Ripley uses a spoon to take the maraschino cherry off of her milkshake.

"You want this?" she asks, and he nods. Ripley waits until he's done eating the cherry before she decides what her question will be.

"Dipper, just a hypothetical, but how would you react if you met somebody who had traveled to other dimensions and timelines?" she asks. He stares at her, and she adds, "That's my first question."

"That's what you want to waste your question on?" Dipper asks, aghast.

"It's not a waste if you have an answer," Ripley says gently.

"Well- well I dunno, I-I would demand proof, I would ask why they came here, what they wanted, where they're really from-" he starts, visibly working himself up over the notion. Ripley reaches out and pats his shoulder.

"That's a really smart response, Dipper. And I'm really glad it's something you're clearly very passionate about." She pauses in the act of taking a big, chunky sip of her milkshake. She's pretty sure she just saw those same red-hooded jogging guys from the other day pass by the window, although she's not sure why they're in their jogging suits at this time of the afternoon.

"So... next question?" Dipper asks, and she nods. "Aunt Ripley, how come Grunkle Stan or my parents or Grandpa Shermie never mentioned you before? I mean, you just... show up out of nowhere, you don't live here and you don't have anywhere else to be and you're..."

"Just plain weird, right?" Ripley asks, grinning. "Well, look. I've been... lost. Looking for home for a long time. Traveling from place to place in search of a way back home, that kind of dealie. I only just got back to this dimension like three and a half months ago, and I didn't even know where to look so I just kept wandering."

Dipper looks at her, his straw hanging from his mouth. Ripley's grin widens.

"To be honest, I wasn't sure anyone I'd left behind was still... around. So it was a really nice surprise finding Stan and you kids here. It's... nice to have a family again, even if Stan's being a stubborn butt about it."

"You're from another dimension?" he hisses, clutching at his vest. "What- but- how?!"

"I'm from this dimension," Ripley corrects. "Actually, this isn't even the only Earth I've been to- this one, this dimension, is Earth 46'\\. There's so many dimensions that there's serial numbers."

"Th-that's- that can't be possible, you're-" Dipper catches the way Ripley's waggling her eyebrows at him, and he takes a deep breath, pulling out a stenographer's pad and a pencil. "Prove it."

"That's going to have to wait til we're not in the middle of a crowded diner, sweetie," Ripley admits. "But if you want to do the rest of your interview, we can get that part out of the way while we eat our shakes and fries."

"Where are you from?" he asks.

"Atlanta, Georgia of Earth 46'\," Ripley replies, smirking. "But I haven't been there in... whuff, eighteen years."

"What do you want?" he asks, diligently writing down her response.

"Well... some of that I can't tell you, because it's a secret between me and your, um, Grunkle. And I'm here because... because this is where my family is. I know it's weird, but I've had to learn the hard way, you have to appreciate the people you love because you just... never know." Ripley sips her milkshake again.

Dipper is looking at her when she glances up with a startlingly searching expression on his face. That, she notes, isn't really a face she's ever seen on Ford.

"Does Grunkle Stan know?" he asks, and she blinks.

"Well..." She looks around, hoping for the waitress to interrupt with their fries for a distraction, but she's giving some lumberjacks their orders. "Well... see... Dipper, the first thing you need to understand is that your Grunkle loves you kids. From what I know about how he grew up, I think it's not very... easy for him to put it into words or actions that people can understand all the time. But one of the ways he tries to show his love is by protecting you." She peels off the thin hoodie she picked up at that Edgy On Purpose store at the mall yesterday to show him her bandaged arm- which, she notes uneasily, she must have forgotten to change the bandages on since the other day, since there are a couple of small red-brown spots leaking through. Oh well. She works at the bandages until she can wriggle them off, showing Dipper the scabbed-over puncture wounds and discolored bruising on the inside of her bicep.

"That's not a coyote bite," Dipper says quietly.

"No. It's not. I'm a thirty-seven year old professional fighter, Dipper, and I almost died. What do you think would have happened if it was you or Mabel?" she asks, trying to be gentle. "Stan thinks- and I don't know, buddy, I haven't been around human kids in a long time- but Stan thinks that if you hear that there's a chupacabra or whatever in a certain part of the forest, you might try to go lookin' for it. Maybe even think that you can outrun it, or outsmart it, or outfight it. Stan knows what it's like to lose somebody you love, Dipper. Please- for his peace of mind and for mine, for your safety and the safety of your sister. Please respect that Stan is just trying his best to protect you and that you absolutely need protecting right now."

"I'm not helpless, you know," he says, giving her a defiant look. "I've dealt with some weird stuff since coming here."

"I'll bet." Ripley uses her spoon on a particularly big chunk of cookie dough. "I've dealt with some weird stuff since coming here, too."

Dipper mostly seems intent on playing with the rest of his milkshake. "Aunt Ripley, how did you survive the chupacabra?"

"I killed it saving some woodland critter, so he got his friends to help me. I'm fuzzy on the details, to be honest. The gnomes were a big part of it."

"The gnomes are creeps, though!" Dipper leans forward, eyes wide. "They tried to kidnap and marry Mabel!"

"What?" Ripley cracks her knuckles. "Let me guess, Jeff was the ringleader of that little misadventure, right? I'm going to punt him into next year, I swear to god..."

"Aunt Ripley?"

She looks at him- tired, kind of sweaty, face still rounded off with baby fat.

"Yes, Dipper?"

"Mabel told me you said you believed her. About the wax figures."

"Bleh, yeah. Those things are the worst," she shudders. "My offer still stands, Dip- I don't have very many skills that are suited to life on Earth, but I can teach you guys to fight and win."

"I figured you were just being nice," he admits, looking down. "That you were just, you know, patronizing her or whatever."

"And now you know," Ripley says, grinning. "I told her and I'm telling you. You never have to face anything alone. I mean, yes, I definitely meant stuff like evil cursed murder-dolls and, I dunno, whatever else weird thing you might find here. But I also mean, you know, other stuff. And it's not that I'm only believing you because I have seen weirder shi- stuff, sorry, stuff in my life. It's because you and your sister are important, Dipper. I want to know if something's bothering you and if you let me, I'll help fix it."

"Stan doesn't really say stuff like that," Dipper tells her softly. "He acts like he thinks we're making it up."

"Stan," Ripley says gravely, "is a talented actor." He looks up at her over the table, and she smiles. "Humor your uncle for now, Dipper, okay? It makes him feel like you're safer if you don't know some things, like he can protect your body and your mind if he can protect you from that knowledge. I'll do some kinda psychological secret lady-talk at him to bring him around to being more emotionally open with you, which I guess I need to ask Mabel for help with because hell if I know how to do that. Heck. Heck if... oh, god, okay, don't tell Stan if I curse, Dipper, I'm really not used to watching my language, I trust you not to follow my bad example."

"I dunno if I'll be able to remember not to bring it up," Dipper says carefully, adjusting his hat. "You know they say you can tie memories to certain sensory stimuli? I might need regular milkshakes to help me remember."

"You _are_ a Pines!" Ripley crows, delighted.

The rest of their little outing is pretty mundane- Susan brings them their fries and seats a family of tourists in the booth next to them, and Dipper explains to Ripley how there are more Star Wars movies than just the three.

Ripley can't keep from grinning on the drive back to the Mystery Shack, and Dipper even joins her in singing along to Bohemian Rhapsody.

 

**Dimension 48%W, one year ago**

 

 

"Do you like it?"

"No," Ripley says, before she even opens her eyes. She opens her eyes and immediately curses at the sight of Natashoggoth in front of her. "Nobody invited you!"

"You're in my temple," the demon retorts. "And I most definitely invited you."

Ripley looks around, scowling. Everything is brightly lit and clean and unbroken, and the pit in the middle of the room is full of burning coals.

"What's the fire-pit for?" she asks dully.

"To ensure that only the most devout of my Daughters may approach," the demon replies. "You see it whole, as it was six hundred years ago."

"Why isn't it still a thing?" Ripley asks, eyes narrowed. She can't move. She's trying to move and she can't.

"Time is meaningless," Natashoggoth says simply. "Six hundred years ago, my entire temple was ransacked. Every celebrant, every Sister and sacrifice, torn to shreds. My physical body was destroyed and reborn in the body of my most sacred vessel." She runs a delicately sharp fingertip against Ripley's lower lip. "It was ecstasy."

"Sounds like it was gross," Ripley says shortly.

"You'd have liked it," the demon replies, almost absentminded as she looks around the room. "This chamber is where I dwelled when I wanted to... recharge. This chamber is where I dwell when I want to compound the self that I have chosen to be. No doubt you noticed the mirrors, graven with the words of power? They amplify my essence, into itself, into my body. When I am here I am more than anything else that exists." She puts a hand on Ripley's throat. "When I am here, there is no stopping me from getting what I want."

"Let me go," Ripley growls softly. The demon titters and moves away. Ripley jumps up, all at once, and starts backing away toward the door she came in through-

-and passes back into the mirrored chamber, where Natashoggoth is waiting.

"Fuck you," Ripley says, after a moment.

"Yes. You will."

Ripley gawks at her, horrified, and turns and runs back through the door-

-and skids to a stop in the middle of the mirrored chamber, barely stopping herself from falling into the coal pit.

 "Is this the mindscape?" she asks, fighting to keep the tremble out of her voice. "Because if it is, if I told you once, I told you literally seven hundred and eighty-seven times, lucid dreaming, Tasha, in my own mind I'm a-"

"You're not in your mind," Natashoggoth whispers. "Remember? You're in the one place where I am most powerful. The one place where I am always, always in complete control. This is real. You are _mine_ here."

"No," Ripley says quietly, inhaling sharply. "This isn't real, because if it was real- if it was real it would _hurt_ when I-" She plunges a hand into the coal pit, then yanks it immediately out, cursing wildly as she hugs her burned hand to her chest.

"One Sword, just sit down and think for a moment, won't you?" Natashoggoth says, and her tone is almost kind. "Why are you fighting so hard? Cipher doesn't even want you, he wants Ford Pines."

"I'll never," Ripley says, panting hard. "I'll never give him to you. To any of you."

"So you say," the demon says. "But surely you must wonder if he would even hesitate to give you to us, if it meant saving his own skin."

"No, I don't wonder," Ripley spits.

"When's the last time he held you, little Savage?" Ripley shuts her eyes tightly as Natashoggoth approaches, turning her face away when she feels a clammy hand. "It was a long time _before_ he pushed you off a roof to your death so he wouldn't have to babysit you while fighting the undead."

"That's not how it happened!" Ripley snaps, opening her eyes to glare up at the eyes and mouth she considers the demon's actual face. "That's not- he was trying to protect me, he thought-"

"-that you were fumbling. That you were letting them too close. After all, your job was to engage the enemy safely away from Six Fingers, so that he would stay safe and shoot at his leisure. You were failing in your purpose as his shield, Ripley."

"That's not what I am to him!" Ripley throws a punch and misses spectacularly- the demon dodges like an inkblot forming in water, all loosely defined shapes and liquid movement, and Ripley's momentum carries her too far and she lands painfully hard on her knees. A hand comes to rest on the back of her neck, holding her in place as she hisses in pain. "You... you're just trying to fuck with me, I know that, because he loves-"

"Oh, One Sword. You don't really think he loved you," Natashoggoth admonishes softly. "You can't have hoped that he would have felt anything for you."

"Fuck off, you're a liar and I know it," Ripley grates out, grabbing onto a nearby bench and struggling to pull herself back to her feet. She's just so tired, her muscles so sore, if she wasn't so tired she'd be kicking this old bag's ass all over the temple. "He loves me the way I love him. It's equal. You can't change what I know is true."

"What you know is that you're everything he hates about his ignorant, brainless, selfish twin," the demon replies. "You're the brawn he resents needing to protect his brain. Why do you think he threw you away the moment you stopped being able to protect him?"

"Shut up about his brother, you hag. He loves his brother," Ripley grinds out, her chest aching. "He loves Stanley."

"You can tell he cares for the twin, even with everything he despises about the man," Natashoggoth concedes. "Because even with all his complaints, when Six Fingers loves someone you can tell. _Can't you_ , Ripley? It's never a guessing game, _is it_ , Ripley? It's never weeks or months of uncertainty dotted with tokens of affection that buy a little more of your time, _right_?"

"Shut up. Shut up!"

"You're the burden he dropped the moment he didn't need you anymore, Ripley. You always needed him more than he needed you and he hated you for it."

"That's not who I am," Ripley whispers, baring her teeth. "It's not who Ford is! I _know_ Ford-"

"What you know is that he chose Bill Cipher. When he had the chance to choose his friends, to choose his family, he chose Bill Cipher. He summoned Bill to his realm and bound him to his own mind. That's how much he values the notion of being with someone who is intelligent, Ripley. What would have ever made you think that a man who values intelligence would willingly spend his time with you?"

"He's- he's more than his brain," Ripley stammers, turning away, her arms around herself. "He's not what you're saying he is. He's looking for me, the way I'm looking for him. And we're going to be together again and we're going home and we're going to be happy."

"He would have found you if he wanted to be with you again," the demon points out. "Why are you fighting so hard, Ripley? He didn't want to be with you when he _was_ with you. Now you're free of him."

"You're a fucking liar, shut up," Ripley hisses.

"How long has it been, Ripley?" She refuses to look as the demon comes close, wrapping a toothy arm around her, tongues curling around her corners. Ripley pulls sharply away from the touch. "He only ever let you touch him when he wanted something. He only ever touched you when he was afraid that he couldn't control you. He knew when he met you, Ripley. Ten years alone, without human contact, without a scrap of affection, without the basic necessity of physical intimacy. He knew from the moment he met you that you could be controlled. Why else do you think he decided that you were safe to take with him? He knew, even then."

"That's n-not what happened," Ripley gasps, tears rolling down her face. "You fucking asshole, he-"

"He was going to steal your sword and destroy the planet you were on to power the portal," Natashoggoth says simply. "He wasn't going to tell you he was leaving. It was only after he realized that you would be useful that he decided to take you with him. You only deserved to live as long as you had worth to him."

"No," Ripley snarls wetly.

"And you certainly proved your worth to him, over the years, didn't you?" the demon croons soothingly. "But it just wasn't enough. He just didn't want you anymore."

"Sh-shut. Up." Ripley buries her face in her hands. She can't cry. She can't. Crying would mean... crying would mean that maybe... maybe some of this bullshit was actually...

"Do you want to see where he is now?" Natashoggoth whispers, mouth against Ripley's ear. Her eyes open and the mirror nearest to them is showing something- the inside of a room- the inside of a familiar room, Jheselbraum's study. Ford's there, standing- a little grayer, but otherwise he looks good- and Jheselbraum is  holding his hands as he... as he teaches her to dance, even though he never wanted to do that with Ripley, said he was a terrible dancer, that it was one of two things Stanley could do well that Ford couldn't. It looks like a waltz.

"You're already better than me at this," he says, his voice tinny and small.

"Using my oracle powers to know where not to put my feet," Jheselbraum jokes softly. "It would hurt to be stepped on."

"I would never damage something so beautiful," he objects, pretending to be offended.

"Turn it off," Ripley says, and she sits down heavily on the nearest bench.

"You seem to be suffering a great deal to rejoin someone who's finally with someone he considers an equal. Someone he considers beautiful." A hand cups the side of Ripley's face, and she flinches but doesn't move to get away from the touch. " _I want you_ , Ripley. I think _you're_ beautiful."

"It doesn't matter," Ripley says hollowly. "It doesn't matter. I'm going to get him home. I'm going to find him and get him home. I love him. It doesn't change just because you're, you're-"

"You're more than what you can give Ford Pines," Natashoggoth says. She runs her thumb across Ripley's face, a line across her nose and cheekbones. "And you can prove it right now. You have one of my knives in your pocket, Ripley."

Ripley fumbles for it. It's not the rusted-over wreck she picked up earlier- it's bright, and shining, and sharp. Looking at the symbols makes her feel-

  _h_ _ome not alone held safe wanted loved_

-better. Like she could be a part of something bigger than herself. Like maybe Natashoggoth has been trying to tell her something important this whole time, and she's just been too stubborn to listen.

Like maybe it would be a really good idea to be the first person in six hundred years that Natashoggoth could step into and become. Like maybe she would finally be worth something if she was a vessel for Natashoggoth's essence. Like maybe it would be a really, really good idea right now to use this knife and cut across the line Natashoggoth drew on her face earlier, maybe even cut deep enough to peel off the skin there, so people would know, so she would be marked, so she would belong to Natashoggoth body and mind and soul.

That would be a really good idea right now.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"If she's here we have to stop her before-" Hyde stops suddenly, and Sanchez runs into his back.

"Hey wh-what the fuck, why'd you just-"

"We're too late," Hyde says flatly. Sanchez picks himself up and looks into the dim chamber, where Ripley is kneeling alone. There is a dark object in her hand. She is running it against the skin of her face, across her cheekbones and nose, and there's glistening redness running down from the line and down her forearm. Her glasses are pushed up onto her head and her eyes are glassy and staring.

"Holy shit! Holy shit, Savage, get up, what the fuck are you doing?!" Sanchez barks, surging forward to stop her only to be snatched and held in place by Hyde's prosthetic.

"The god she wants to destroy has finally made its move," Hyde says quietly. "Come, Rick. If we're lucky we'll get off-planet before the ritual is complete and the god will only manifest after we're safely away."

"Hey, f-f-fuck you!" Sanchez spits out, digging into his pockets for something, anything- his hand lands on something hard and solid and he throws it at Ripley. It's not a perfect shot, but the gunmetal of his flask winks once in the dying light of Ripley's dropped chemtorch before hitting her squarely in the shoulder.

Ripley stops cutting her face to look at the flask, blinking slowly. She picks it up with her free hand, puzzled.

"Oh shit, hey, give that back, you demon-possessed lunatic!" Sanchez yells, patting his pockets even more frantically as he realizes that that had been the only flask he has on him.

Ripley stands slowly and starts walking towards them. It seems hard to do, like something is physically pulling against her every step.

"Isszzzz th'ssss vawwwwd kaahh."

"Shit yeah, haha," Sanchez laughs nervously, and Hyde shoots him a narrow-eyed glare.

"You're supposed to quit drinking, Rick."

"Bite me," Sanchez hisses back.

Ripley has a hard time opening the flask with the knife in her hand, so she drops it. She pours a little onto her face, hissing suddenly at the sudden stinging pain, and then takes a swig.

Ripley blinks several times, before stepping out of the chamber entirely.

"That's....  not vodka, you asshole," she says quietly.

"Does anything on this p-planet even look like a potato?" Sanchez sneers.

"Are you yourself?" Hyde asks, holding up a hand to silence Sanchez. Ripley thinks for a moment, then nods.

"Fuck this entire building. Let's get the fuck out of here." She takes another, longer drink from the flask before handing it back to Sanchez.

"You able to walk home?" Hyde asks.

"I'm..." She blinks, staggering. "Oh, fuck me, Sanchez, what's... fuckin'... in that?"

"Y-yeah, I'm surprised she's even standing right now," Sanchez admits, before finishing off the contents of his flask. "Looks like you're gonna have to carry that he-urp-eavy drink of water home, boss."

"No, nah, I'm... I'm good, I'm..." Ripley trips over an eroded cobblestone and collapses in a tangle of loose limbs, spitting blood. "Ugh. This... no."

"Hmm. Resisting the will of a god, even from within the darkest clutches," Hyde comments quietly as he picks her up in an awkward fireman's carry. "This one might succeed where others have failed."

"Oh yeah, like I had noo-urgh-oothin' to do with it," Sanchez bitches from behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit because when I wrote this I somehow got asterisks (*) and apostrophes (') confused.


	7. Chapter 7: The lonely grave of Paula Schulz

"I've got some good news and I've got some medium news," Ripley tells Stan, once they're safely in the basement lab.

"What's the good news?" Stan asks, wondering what horrible thing she's going to tell him in the 'medium' news.

"Well, I found a gold dealer in Portland who's going to set me up with a good price for the gold I got in the woods a few days ago, so I think it's pretty safe to say that by the time I come back from my trip we're going to be set for a lot of what we need, equipment-wise," Ripley says happily, taking off her jacket and hanging it on the back of Stan's chair. "I've come up with a partial list, and I think between the two of us we can figure out most of what we need. So... that's good, right?"

"That is pretty good," Stan admits cautiously. "What's the medium news?"

"Well, full disclosure, the kids know I'm a dimension-hopper and that you're definitely aware of the paranormal, but I didn't tell them about the portal or Ford or anything because I wasn't sure what I wasn't allowed to tell them," Ripley says brightly, before looking at her bicep. "Also I think I'm getting infected, can you take a-"

"What?!" Stan clutches his fez to his chest, horrified. "You weren't allowed to tell them any of it! Fuck, can you keep _any_ secrets?!"

"What's your issue? The kids have already had a run-in with the gnomes and your apparently-cursed collection of wax dummies, Stan. They know not to go into the forest, per my festering chupacabra wound, but the gnomes have snuck into my room at the hotel and the dummies were in your house the whole time. How can you sit there and tell me they're better off not knowing to look over their shoulders once in a while?"

Stan is silent, which Ripley takes as tentatively-good, since it means they're not about to be shouting at one another.

"I'm sorry if you think I shouldn't have told them what I've been up to before coming to Gravity Falls, Stan, but that's not your secret to keep and it can't possibly hurt the kids to know where I'm from." She reaches out and gingerly presses the back of her knuckles against his hand. "What are you scared of, Stan? What is the worst that can happen as a direct result of the kids knowing about me, about this, about all of it?"

"Anything happening to the kids," he says gruffly, snatching his hand back. "Everything happening to the kids."

"Stop," Ripley says quietly. "Really, Stan. What's the worst that could-"

"How about they find out what a screw-up I am?" Stan bites out. "How about the moment they figure out that I'm not even the shitty uncle they thought they had, I'm actually the dumber, criminal, worthless version a'him?"

"Aw, Stan," she says, sighing. "Nobody's worthless. And I know you're not worthless, so can you just calm down and-"

"Lady, you don't know shit about me, alright? There's shit I've done that would make your hair curl, so just shut up about stuff you know nothing about," he says flatly. Ripley glares at him, folding her arms.

"Stan, everybody's done shit they're not proud of. And if you knew the half of what I've done, what I've been through, you'd probably throw up in your mouth a lil. And you know what? I don't doubt that some of your past stuff would shock the hell out of me. Because it's not like a competition, Stan, you don't just keep throwing yourself into the wall of moral judgement and get graded on how many dents you put in it."

Stan mirrors her, folding his arms over his chest. It's admittedly a bit more intimidating when he does it.

"I can't control what you tell the kids or not," he says finally.

"Damn right you can't," Ripley agrees. "But you can ask nicely, Stan. Protecting those two kids and getting Ford back to you are my top priorities right now."

"Why?" Stan asks suddenly, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "Why are you so invested in this family?"

"...Stan, I don't have anything else. I don't have anybody else. And even if I did, even if I had blood relatives out there, Ford is my family and that makes you my family, that makes the kids my family. I'm... I don't know what else to be, if I'm not protecting a Pines." She rubs the back of her neck, unable to meet his gaze. "Yes, I realize that's fucked up, and that it's fucked up t-to tell you that, I'm not tryin' to put some kind of sob story on you and I'm not gonna be a burden on you or the kids, okay? And if you really... if you really think I shouldn't be here then I can go."

"Where would you go, if I did?" Stan asks, after a minute. Ripley shrugs. "What would you do out there?"

"Aw, don't worry about that, Stan. I got a pretty good fake ID and if I can't get honest work, I can always get dishonest work, right? And if that don't pan out, well, I ain't a stranger to the road, so. I'd be fine. I mean, I'll still hook you up with the supplies for the portal, I'm not gonna drop out on you like that, and if there's money left over from that it's yours, it- it's yours by right anyway, I know you own the land around here. I mean, I can be out of your hair as soon as I get you what you need." Ripley fidgets, still not looking at Stan.

"Well, I mean, you say that," Stan says slowly. "But you're the only person I know of who has any experience workin' on portals at all."

"Yeah?" Ripley can't make herself look over at him. "I mean,  if you need a hand with some of the heavy lifting and stuff, I can wait til everything's fixed-"

"And Ford's going to want to see you, right?" Stan presses. "You two bein' Scifi Nerd Married and whatever."

"I hope so," Ripley says softly.

"And who knows why but the kids seem to like you," he adds.

"That's what I get for bein' the Fun Adult," she can't help but interject, finally sneaking a peek at him.

"I'm not gonna be the asshole that puts you out on the street with nowhere to go," Stan tells her, looking distantly at the portal console. "And when Ford comes home, it'll work out."

"Yeah, maybe," Ripley says, smiling faintly. "So... uh... I guess I'm staying, then."

"Seems like it." Stan sighs. "Just... run it by me first before you decide to tell the kids some world-changing truth or something, okay?"

"I killed a god," Ripley volunteers. Stan massages the bridge of his nose.

"Don't tell them that."

"I killed and ate a dragon once."

"Don't tell them anything about you killing anything!"

She stares at him, sighing.

"Most of my... time spent on traveling... was killing stuff, Stan."

"Only tell them stuff that's relevant to their lives here. If it ain't right for a PG-rated movie, they don't hear about it."

"I don't know what PG-rated means," Ripley says, bewildered. "But... okay. And we're really not telling them about Ford yet?"

"What if we tell'em and then we can't get the portal to work?" Stan counters. "Or what if we get him but he's d- he's not- if they can't meet him?"

"Okay, that's... fair." Ripley hesitates, watching him pull on heavy work gloves and pull out the toolbox he keeps down here. "Do you still want them to think we used to be married, Stan?"

"I don't know," he says, after a while. "I can't think of a way to explain why you're here without it."

"Me neither." Ripley sighs. "We gotta tell them at some point. Some point before Ford gets here. I'm not really comfortable with lyin' to the kids as much as we are."

"Well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it," Stan says gruffly, before holding out Ol' Sparky, intact. "Here, I- probably screwed it up, but I tried to put it back together, I dunno."

"Let's see." Ripley takes the sword and, after standing back a ways, ignites it. She gazes at the blade for a few moments, before smiling tightly and turning it off. "Looks perfect to me, Stan. Thank you."

"You're... you're welcome." The two of them take some time to get working, but once they start it's in relative silence. It's nearly an hour before Stan comes over, his battered first aid kit in hand.

"Hey, didn't you say your arm's infected?" he asks, touching her shoulder. She startles badly, relaxing a little once she figures out what he's after.

"Oh. Yeah, do you mind? I just... I would, but it's awkward and I don't have supplies at my hotel yet, so..."

Stan runs his calloused fingertips over the swollen, scabbed-over wounds, frowning. "You probably oughtta see a real doctor about this, y'know."

"I'll see if there's a free clinic I can hit in Portland," Ripley says, watching him clean it with a disinfectant wipe. "You know, out of nowhere the other day, Dipper said somethin' funny. He said he could tell we were married. Like, out of the blue."

"Why'd he say that?" Stan asks, furrowing his brow in confusion as he slathers a little ointment on the wounds before wrapping it all up.

"I dunno, I had Creedence on the radio, I guess he said you and I got a lot in common,"  she tells him.

"Hah, yeah. Probably would'a married you myself if we'd met first," Stan says, a little dry.

"Really?" Ripley asks, despite herself.

"...nah, not really, I was a mess. Anyway, I been married and divorced, it was a fucking disaster."

"I think you would've done alright," she says, and he looks at her for a minute, confused. She shrugs. "I mean, it's all hypothetical. I was only five when Ford went through the portal but because of time dilation bullshit I was almost thirty when I actually met him, and he was only thirty-seven."

"Hah, yeah. By the time I was thirty-seven I was..." He waves an arm at the lab, putting away his first aid kit. "Preoccupied."

"Heh. Between you, me, and him, we _almost_ add up to one normal adult life, huh?"

"We'll probably need to get a couple more adults in here before we can say that," he says, giving a dramatic sweep of his arms, and she laughs. The tension from before broken, they get back to work for a couple more hours- Ripley only realizes the time when she yawns so hard her jaw momentarily dislocates with a weirdly loud pop.

"That sounded gross," Stan comments from where he's working on the other side of the portal generator. He stands, peering over at her. "Come on, no point in working on it if you're gonna be so tired that we'll have a bunch of mistakes to fix tomorrow."

"S'almost four," Ripley grumbles, stretching her back before shambling over to meet him in the control room. "Once we get the bits we're missin' I think... I honestly think this portal is gonna be up and runnin' in under a week, though."

"You're fucking with me?"

Ripley shakes her head, yawning again. "Naw, Stan. It's gonna work. We're just gonna have to spend time scannin' for him in the multiverse after that." He watches her pull her jacket on, his expression indecipherable. "Wha's the matter?"

"You're not good to drive."

"What? I ain't been drinkin', Stan, I'm fine."

"Come on. You'll run yourself off the road like this." His tone softens. "You can get four hours here and then we can wake up at eight, before the kids start getting up. They won't see you and you'll have a chance to get back to your hotel for a nap before you drive to Portland tomorrow."

"Cutebiker already thinks you're sweet on me, what's he gonna say when I stagger in from your place tomorrow morning?" Ripley asks, shaking her head. "One hour. Just... a power nap. That's a thing, right? Then I'll drive back to the hotel to rest up a little. I planned on bein' on the road by nine, so."

"Fine. Just get enough sleep that they won't be scrapin' you off a tree in the morning," Stan says gruffly.

They get all the way upstairs before Ripley realizes there's a flaw in this argument. "Stan- I can't make you stay up another hour. This is ridiculous, I-I can drive now, seriously."

"No, that's... I'll stay out here with ya. Probably can't get to sleep in an hour if I tried, anyway." He ushers her to the living room, and she frowns, holding up a finger as she mentally envisions poking a hole in his plan.

"That's not even a loveseat, Stan, we can't both sit on your chair. Look, I'll be fine-"

"Look, pal, you're not drivin' when you're too tired to see straight, so you're either takin' the bed while I stay down here or you're jammin' your ass into half the Laz-E-Boy while I jam my fat ass into the other half, alright?"

"Jamming our fat asses into one chair it is," Ripley says after a moment. She fidgets with the sleeve of her jacket. "I don't wanna put you out, Stan, is all."

"You're not puttin' me out," Stan tells her. "Look, if you're really not comfortable I'll drive, okay?"

"You're just as tired as me, plus you seem to be a hell of a lot blinder," she yawns, plopping into the chair and squishing over to one side. "It's... just an hour."

"Yeah," he agrees, squishing into the other side. It's such a tight fit that Ripley knows immediately that this was a bad idea, and she starts worrying about the structural integrity of the chair under their combined weight. Stan shifts uncomfortably. "Listen, can I move my arm? I'm not bein' fresh, you're puttin' it to sleep."

"Oh- no, do whatever you gotta do," Ripley says, and he moves his burly arm to pull it around her shoulders. They sit like that in silence for a few minutes, before Ripley tilts her head to look sleepily at him. "You awake?"

"Yeah, so far."

"I killed a god."

"You told me. Don't talk about it to the kids, though."

"Yeah, I know. I just- before I killed the god she showed me somethin', she showed me what Ford was up to while I was there gettin' tortured and shit." Ripley hesitates, before deciding against what she really wants to say. "Did your mom really make you guys take dancing lessons?"

"For a couple years," Stan muses, and he doesn't comment on it when she curls in a little and puts her head on his shoulder. "Ford hated it, same reason he hated boxing. Kept sayin' he wasn't any good with anything physical, and that he needed to concentrate on his studies."

"He always said he wouldn't teach me any steps because you were the one who was good at dancing."

"Hey, he wasn't wrong. I can show you a few moves sometime."

"That'd be fun." Ripley puts an arm around his front with a yawn. "Not bein' fresh. Jus' need a place to put it."

"Sure," Stan says, and Ripley feels the weight of his cheek leaning against the top of her head.

 _Just an hour to nap_ , she thinks blearily to herself. Won't even have time to start a nightmare or anything. It'll be fine.

A long, high-pitched squealing noise wakes her up and she reaches out to turn the alarm off, only blinking her eyes open when her hand meets a head full of fluffy hair instead of the clock radio next to her bed at the hotel. Everything is blurry.

It takes a few minutes to focus enough to realize it's because Mabel's squeaking at her from arm's length and that her glasses are off.

"Mwuh?" she asks, yawning. She's going to guess by the light in the kitchen and the girl's presence that she and Stan overslept- he's shifting confusedly next to her, and Mabel giggles as Ripley starts patting softly at her face and hair. "Golly, where's the... snooze button..."

"Aunt Ripley, when did you get here?" Mabel laughs, as Ripley stands slowly, a hand on Stan's shoulder.

"Uh, well, last night, after you kids went to bed, I couldn't sleep-" She glances frantically at Stan, who picks up where she leaves off.

"Yeah, and I was awake, so we,  uh, we talked a little, watched some TV-"

"And I meant to head to my hotel but I guess we went to sleep!" Ripley concludes, yawning again. "Gonna be sore as sh- sore as Shirley Temple after a week of boot camp."

"Whaaat? You're silly," Mabel tells her, jumping up a few times before Ripley gets the hint and bends down closer to Mabel's reach. Mabel boops her on the nose, then does it to Stan, who's still in his chair, glancing nervously at Ripley's hand on his shoulder. "Can we have Stancakes for breakfast?"

"Stancakes!" Ripley says, bouncing a little and scooping Mabel up in her arms. "Holy cra- CRACKERS, holy crackers, Stan, is that like pancakes but special Stan-style?"

"Yeah, it is. You want to stick around for breakfast before you head to Portland today?" he asks, standing with a creaking groan.

"Absatively posolutely," Ripley tells him, smooching the top of Mabel's head before putting her back down. Stan nods and heads for the kitchen. "Heard you were dating Gideon Gleeful, little lady. Is that true?"

"Nah, it's over," Mabel says, before adding in a conspiratorial whisper, "he had some kind of telekinesis amulet and tried to kill Dipper because I didn't want to date him, so it's over."

"Sweet merciful heavens, Mabe, ya'll don't spend as much as a minute out of trouble, do you?" she asks, startled. "Look, I hate to even have to offer, but do you  need me to go beat up a fourth-grader right now? Because I ain't too proud to terrorize an evil wizard even if he is snack-sized."

"Haha, nah, you're good," the girl says, waving a hand. "I destroyed his amulet, he's harmless now."

"Baby, I'mma let you in on a little secret from the Adult World," Ripley says solemnly, crouching down to make fuzzy eye contact. "People who abuse their power, no matter what kinda power it is, they don't like having that power taken from them, and they find ways to try to take it back from the people around them. Gideon might not be ruined for the rest of his life, but unless he chooses to change, he's not gonna. Somebody who'll... use his amulet powers to murder a kid to force a girl to date him, that's... not somebody you put behind you. That's the kind of person you watch with your hand on your gun. Not that you should or would have a gun. That's metaphorical talkin'. I mean if that kid ever comes around here or talks to you ever again, you tell me and you tell Stan."

"Do you think he'll try to hurt Dipper again?" Mabel asks softly, eyes huge.

"I think he's already shown himself to be a person who'd hurt you and your brother, and that's not somebody I want to see around you kids." Ripley smooches her forehead again. "Now where's my glasses, muffin?"

"On the dinosaur," the girl says, sniffling. "I'll go get Dipper out of bed."

"Okay, precious. Thank you." Ripley stops her, giving her a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Mabel. Some stuff is easier to handle for grownups, which is why you want Stan and me in on it if he ever bugs you guys again. And you know Stan wouldn't let anything happen to you kids, and I sure wouldn't either."

"Yeah," Mabel says, giving her a watery smile. Ripley sighs and puts her glasses on before heading to the bathroom to try to freshen up before breakfast.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Portland is... boring, even though it was alright when Ripley passed through only two weeks ago. The highlight of her day is when she gets a call just after eleven at night from an unfamiliar number. She picks it up- still charmed by the idea of talking on the phone while driving- and is pleased that it turns out to be Dipper borrowing someone's cell phone.

"Aunt Ripley, you know how you told us to call you if we're in trouble?" Dipper asks, and there's a loud bang and the rattle of static over the end of his words.

"Sure, pumpkin, what's going on? Are- are you in danger now?" Ripley asks, unsure if she should pull over onto the side of the road to talk or if she should try to  hurry home even faster.

"Yeah, k-kinda, there's... these ghosts are terrorizing me and Wendy and they're possessing Mabel?"

"What?!" Ripley takes a deep breath, her hands shaking on the wheel. "Okay, where are you?"

"We're at the abandoned Dusk 2 Dawn between the water tower and the cemetery," comes a female voice- Wendy, Ripley realizes, has taken the phone back. "Dipper says ghosts always have a reason of some kind for doing their thing, but we weren't _doing_ anything to them, just normal teenager stuff-"

"Dipper's... right," Ripley says, something about the wording nagging at her. "I'm an hour away, Wendy, can you put Dipper back on?"

"Shit!" Wendy hisses. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Pines, Dipper just ran out there!"

"Oh god, that... okay, Wendy, can you-" There is an explosion of noise on the other end, before the call drops. Ripley curses and takes a another deep breath, before laying her foot into the gas pedal until she actually reaches the speed limit. By the time she makes it back into town- in forty minutes, sweat dripping from her face as she nervously tries to drive as fast as she can without giving herself a heart attack- she's running through everything she can remember about the handful of times she and Ford had to deal with ghosts over the years. He actually had a list of rules and a spell for getting rid of them- after they parted ways, she just tended to get out of the way if she found out a ghost was involved somewhere.

Ripley's just about to drive onto Gopher Road when she gets another call from Wendy's number.

"Hey, Mrs. Pines, just a head's up, everybody's okay," Wendy says, sounding tired.

"Okay how? Okay like- like everyone's alive? Nobody's in ghost hell? Some people are dead but not in ghost hell?" Ripley asks, and Wendy sighs.

"Let me give you to Dipper."

"Hey, Aunt Ripley." Poor kid sounds exhausted, but he doesn't sound like he's being overcome with despair, so that's got to be a good sign. "We're all okay, we're just getting dropped off back at the Shack."

"I'll meet you there. Dipper, are you and Mabel okay? Like, okay-okay?"

"Yeah, Mabel's just tired. She ate a lot of expired Smile Dip and started hallucinating, so the ghosts started messing around with her, but they let her go."

Ripley tries not to hyperventilate, and feels like she's pretty successful. "I'll be at the Shack in five minutes, honey."

She's there in three, driving up just in time to see a van drive off with a haggard-looking teenager at the wheel. Ripley barely has time to park the car before she comes at the twins at a dead run, scooping them both up into her arms and squishing them tightly.

"Aunt Ripley, we're okay," Mabel says tiredly from somewhere around Ripley's right shoulder.

Ripley can't answer for a minute, her mind racing with images of Mabel with her eyes all different, Mabel being worn like a meatsuit, Mabel with the lower half of her face skinned like one of Natashoggoth's Sisters.

A couple of small hands tangle in the back of her shirt as she tries very hard not to cry all over a pair of preteens.

"Aunt Ripley?" Dipper asks quietly. "Nobody got hurt, if... if you were worried."

"I'm just sorry I wasn't there to help you kick those ghosts' behinds," Ripley sniffles, finally letting the twins go. "Dipper, how did you beat the ghosts?"

"Turned out they just really hated teenagers, so I told them Mabel and I were just twelve," Dipper admits, before adding, "and uh, doin' a... lambylambydance."

"Pardon?" Ripley asks, and before she can get a real response out of him Stan's TV comes flying out the window. The three of them are stunned into silence, which is only broken when Stan peeks his head out the broken window and notices them staring.

"I couldn't find the remote," he says by way of explanation.

"For god's sake," Ripley remarks, too shocked to think of anything else. She ushers the kids inside and watches them go up the stairs before pulling Stan into the kitchen. "Are you alright, Stan, you just threw a television set out a window-"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he brushes her off, looking decently embarrassed. "How was Portland?"

"Ah, it was good, I got the money and most of the stuff and the kids got attacked by ghosts tonight, man, what the hell?" she hisses back.

"I don't know anything about ghosts," Stan protests, and Ripley stops herself from saying something she'll regret later.

"Okay. Fine. But tomorrow I'm performing an exorcism and-or committing arson, and I'm bringin' the kids with me. It'll be a good learning experience."

"Hey, nobody in the family commits arson but me!" Stan snaps back. They both stop and gauge the situation, cracking equally awkward grins.

"Alright, tough guy, if the exorcism thing doesn't work out it's you, me, a can of gas, and maybe the two of us can rig up my old laser gun into a flamethrower."

"Oh sure, if you want to nerd it up," he says, rolling his eyes a little. She nudges his shoulder.

"There's no way I'm going to be able to sneak downstairs with you tonight, I'm headin' to the hotel. Can you check in on the kids while they're sleeping, just to make sure they're doin' okay?"

"Always do," Stan sighs, and she lightly punches his shoulder.

"You're gonna give me cavities, you sweet old weirdo."

"Yeah, get outta here, lady," he grumbles, reaching under his kitchen cabinet for duct tape and something to cover the hole in the window. Ripley coughs.

"I'll pay a glazer to come out and fix the window tomorrow, okay?"

"You're not gonna hear any arguments from me," he grunts, and she gives him a wave before leaving through the front door.

The drive back to the hotel is completely uneventful, up until she parks her car in Tyler's lot and notices a bit of graffiti scrawled onto the brick wall near the door- it's the "X" over a target again.

Ripley considers it, frowning. It's not an X over a target, she decides. It's an eye that's been crossed out. Weird, but no weirder than the muffin she keeps seeing around town.

She gets all the way up to her room and into her pajamas- well, sweatpants and the fluffy robe that came with the room- before she gets the feeling that she's being watched. It takes another hour to scour the room for electronic bugs as well as any signs or ghosts or demons, but nothing comes up.

When she peeks out the window, she thinks she sees a couple of figures in the shadows of a tree across the street, but after several moments of squinting through the glass she realizes that she's being kind of silly about it- she's on the second floor, there's no way someone that far away could be watching her.

Ripley wakes up four hours later with the stench of blood and coal fire in her mouth and the sound of quiet, dying moans in her ears. She takes as hot a shower as she can stand, scrubbing viciously at herself until she starts bleeding on her bicep again, but nothing can get the image she saw in her dreams of Mabel as the high priestess in Natashoggoth's temple, knives in the little girl's hands, trying desperately to kill Ripley, grinning around a mouthful of blood as Ripley kills her.

She ends up curled in the tub with the shower lancing ice-cold water down on her before she comes back to herself and realizes that she's not sure how much time has passed.

She ends up taking the kids out for lunch; Mabel, miraculously, does seem fine. Ripley waits until they're all done with their tacos before she tells them her plan for the afternoon.

"I don't know if I want to go back to the Dusk 2 Dawn, Aunt Ripley, it was... not a good time," Mabel says, frowning at what's left of her nachos.

"Ghosts capable of possessing humans are a menace," Ripley tells her, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. "It doesn't make sense what happened, though- either you guys were all in some kind of spontaneous shared dream where these Category Nine ghosts had abilities far beyond what a ghost would have in the waking world, or somehow you guys encountered a pair of Category Tens who are still human enough to direct their rage at specific targets instead of any innocent that passes through..."

She stops herself, giving the twins a tired smile and trying not to feel bad about the suddenly suspicious look on Dipper's face. "Sorry, kids, I'll try my exorcism spell, but if that doesn't work I'm probably gonna get rid of those ghosts the old-fashioned way."

"What's the old-fashioned way?" Mabel asks, innocently enough that Ripley feels a crush of guilt.

"You call an old priest and a young priest," Ripley jokes, and is relieved that it goes over the kids' heads.

"How do you know about exorcisms and ghost categories?" Dipper asks, and Ripley loses momentum, trying to figure out how to tell a kid that she learned about it from Ford when she's still not allowed to tell a kid that Ford exists yet.

"Well. I've dealt with stuff like that," Ripley says, looking down. "Ghosts. Possession. Demons. It's not... it's not nice, kids. You can't help but feel sorry for the people they used to be, but sometimes there's no way to peacefully put them to rest. S-sometimes you just... have to put them down because there's no getting them back. Sometimes you-"

_waking up to the barrel of Ford's gun, pressed against her cheekbone, leaving a bruise that doesn't fade for days_

_the smell of burnt fur and the oily aftertaste of Devaaki's blood_

_filth in her mouth as Natashoggoth screams and crumbles into nothingness_

"Aunt Ripley?"

"Sometimes," Ripley makes herself say, sweat rolling down her face. "Sometimes you..."

"Do you need to go to Sweater Town?" Mabel asks softly. Ripley has no idea what that means, but focusing on Mabel's voice- she's alive, she's herself, she's okay- helps, a little bit.

"Sorry," Ripley says in a small voice. "Sometimes the ghosts win, I guess."

"Maybe we should do the exorcism some other day," Dipper says, frowning. Ripley nods, exhaling out her nose.

"Maybe. I'm really rusty on exorcisms, anyway- I never wrote down the incantation so it'll be guessing for half of the Latin," she admits.

"There's one in my journal," Dipper says quietly, pulling out a red leather book that is the, haha, twin of the handbound journal Stan keeps in the laboratory, a golden six-fingered hand on the cover with a bold "3" on the palm.

Ripley stares at it, then looks up at Dipper's face. Mabel's eyebrows are up past her bangs- not surprised at the journal, Ripley realizes, but surprised that Dipper's showing it to her.

Dipper is staring hard at her face, watching to see if she recognizes the book before her.

"Ah," she sighs. "There were three. This... makes a lot of sense."

"Aunt Ripley, do you know who the Author of the Journals is?" Dipper asks, and she can hear the capitalization where he turned it into a mythical title.

"I have a pretty good idea," Ripley admits. "Can I see the handwriting?" Not like she needs to, but Dipper hands over the journal like he's loath to part with it.

"Oh, honey," Ripley sighs, opening it to a random page. Gnomes. She flips to another. The gremloblin. Dan Corduroy's cabin. A drawing of someone- must be Fiddleford, he's got a banjo. A section of the portal's schematics. 

A mostly blacked-out page covered in eyes and bloodstains. MY MUSE WAS A MONSTER. I WAS A PUPPET.

"I knew him," Ripley says quietly. "I know him. It's... complicated, kids. He's not around anymore."

"Were you close?" Mabel asks, and Ripley grins.

"Best friend I ever had."

"But Aunt Ripley," Dipper says, frowning. "The Author wrote this in 1981, and... you said you're thirty-seven, that would make you six years old when this was written."

"It's a mystery," Ripley says, waggling her fingers at the kids.

"Was the Author your father?" he asks, and she huffs a laugh, passing the journal back to Dipper.

"Absolutely not. Look, how about this, you guys- forget the exorcism, I just don't feel up to it today."

"But-" Dipper clutches the journal to his chest, eyes wild. "But I have so many questions-"

"Darling," Ripley interrupts, her smile fading. "I promise I'll answer all of your questions as best I can. I've been told that I have to keep all my stories 'rated PG' so it might be hard, but I will tell you everything you want to know. I just... not today, okay? I'm just... it's a really sore topic."

"Don't worry, Aunt Ripley," Mabel says, elbowing Dipper. "You won't have to answer any nerd questions until you're feeling better."

Ripley smiles. It doesn't even feel forced.

She waits until the kids are setting up their names on the screen at the bowling alley before she calls Stan. "You got a copy machine, right? We're gonna need it... I'll explain later," she cuts him off, hanging up as Mabel hands her a huge pink bowling ball.

She smiles. It still doesn't feel forced.

She takes the kids home to Stan and tells him, quietly, that she'll be late tonight. She smiles. It's a little forced.

She opens the door to the Dusk 2 Dawn and looks around, humming to herself. She tries to imagine bright little Mabel, floating in midair, speaking in a voice not her own-

Ripley puts a boot through a glass display case before she realizes what she's doing.

"Now, we can't have that, can we?" an old man says from behind her.

Ripley grins, and it is savage. She turns to look at the apparitions floating behind her. They could have been her parents or her grandparents.

"You must be the Duskertons," she says, cracking her knuckles.

"And who are you, young lady?" the old woman asks in a kindly tone.

"I'm the Auntie of the little girl you two shitlords fucked with yesterday."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stan opens the door after one in the morning. Ripley still smells like kerosene and burnt plastic.

"What happened to committing arson together as a family?" he asks drily.

"Plausible deniability," Ripley replies. "Anyway, who says I did anything illegal? I went out to the lake and used the public grills they got next to the picnic tables. Can I have some water?"

"Trespassing might be illegal," Stan points out, grabbing a glass and filling it from the tap.

"Good thing the only witnesses are burning in hell," Ripley says smugly, gulping down the water.

"I dunno... I remember the Duskertons when they were alive, they seemed alright," Stan says quietly.

" _They hurt the kids_ ," Ripley growls, her knuckles turning white as her grip on the glass tightens.

"Alright," Stan says, reaching out and gently taking the glass out of her hand. Ripley looks down at her hand, still half-frozen in a loose, clawlike fist.

"Alright?" Ripley echoes, and he takes her hand in both of his, smoothing it out and pressing it flat. She imagines Stan as a kid, doing this for Ford.

"Yeah, alright. It's over with now. You said you needed to use my copy machine. It ain't fixed yet, but I can get it running by tomorrow if I work on it tonight instead of going downstairs."

"Mm," Ripley nods, glancing away. "Dipper and Mabel found one of Ford's journals. There's a partial diagram of the portal configurations in there."

"You're kidding," Stan says quietly. "Been lookin' for that thing for thirty years. Shit. Where'd he get it?"

"No clue, I didn't ask." Ripley looks up at his face. "Is there a good time to sneak into the kids' room and make copies?"

"Why don't we just keep it, maybe he'll stay out of trouble that way," Stan points out. Ripley gives him an unimpressed Look. Stan sighs, rubbing a hand on his stubbly chin. "I dunno, somebody has to be the Responsible Adult if you're gonna be the Fun one."

"I looked at it, there's some useful stuff in there for a kid who keeps accidentally getting harassed by the paranormal," Ripley points out. Stan grunts.

"We throw a party at the Shack every summer on the fifteenth."

"Oh _really_."

"So, you know, I can keep the kid busy during the event and you can get the book out of his room and make the copies before the party's over," Stan explains.

"Sounds like a good plan," Ripley says, smirking.

"What's with the face?" Stan asks, eyes narrowed.

"It's already the fifteenth," Ripley points out.

"So?"

She pulls him into a tight hug, pressing a kiss against his cheek. "Happy birthday, Stan."

His arms tighten around her for a few moments, before he gently pushes her away.

"You fuckin' reek, lady. Go home and take a shower."

"I'll see you later, pumpkin."


	8. Chapter 8: The Cruel Tutelage of Pai Mei

** Dimension 46'\, three months ago **

 

 

Ripley gets to a payphone and dials the number.

"Smith residence, Jerry speaking?" a stranger says upon pickup.

"Hello," Ripley says, unsure of how formal she ought to be for this stranger. "Um, I'm calling to speak to Dr. Ricardo Sanchez. Is he-"

"Oh, him?" Jerry does not think to muffle the receiver before yelling into a different part of the house. "RICK, IT'S FOR YOU."

There's a shuffling scuffle sound as the phone's passed off. "What do you want?"

"Oh, you sound older," Ripley says, despite herself. "Aw, shit, I mean- look, Sanchez, we haven't met yet I think, but an alternate dimension version of you gave me this number to call if I ever ended up on my home Earth, and, well, I need your help."

"...and this c-concerns me how."

"Well, I've got some cool dimensional souvenirs and weird shit you might like, like food from a cannibal dimension," Ripley says, bemused. "Sanchez said you'd be into looking at the portal sword me and Ford Pines made, too."

"Ford Pines?"

"Interdimensional brigand and master criminal Ford Pines? Yes."

"...wait, what? We went to grad school together. Are you fucking- _are you fucking serious?!_ That asshole made a- I'm going to f-f-fucking- where are you?"

"Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey," Ripley says, grinning at the night sky. "If you have a moment I can give you my exact coordinates so you can use your portal gun."

"What makes you think I'm gonna come help you?" the Rick Sanchez of this dimension demands.

"Well, the other one said you're kinda high up on the Rick-tor Scale of Good and Evil, which, that's adorable if you guys have such a thing," Ripley adds. "He said you were probably one of the nicer ones who isn't also a doofus and that you're more trustworthy in his opinion because you ain't part of the, um, Council of Yous?"

"Ugh," he mutters on his end.

"Yeah, it sounded really, uh, masturbatory from what he described," Ripley says cheerfully, fiddling with her dimensional scanner. "Anyway, I'm at 46'\\-526-4043.1002 but I think if you shave .0001 off that you won't open the portal halfway up my asshole." She can hear him grumbling on the other side, which is usually a pretty good sign with the Sanchez she got to know. "Oh, by the way, can you get here in a hurry? I think the cops got called on me."

She hangs up before he can finish the impressive string of curses- thirteen languages in one sentence though, that's impressive.

Ripley's aware of how she looks- she hasn't seen a mirror but she caught sight of her reflection in the window of an empty car as she walked the beach looking for a payphone in the dead of night, and even if she hadn't seen a barefoot, bloodsoaked wraith in torn, filthy clothing in her reflection, she knows that she scared the shit out of a gaggle of teenagers who were drinking and smoking pot around a bonfire on the sand. Washing her face and hands in the ocean had only sort of helped the situation.

She sighs and leans up against the payphone, aware that she's leaving a full-body imprint in other people's blood on the side.

A big, round, lime green portal opens up on the wall four feet from her, and she wrinkles her nose despite the smile forming on her lips.

"-alright M-Morty I'm not sure why, it's just a quick trip to pick up a _holy shit_!"

"Oh my god, oh my god, Rick!" a short, thin teenaged boy cries, grabbing onto the old man Sanchez has become. "Is this another paid assassin?"

"Paid? Ha, I wish!" Ripley laughs, holding out a hand that's mostly clean up to the wrist. "Ripley Savage, nice to meet you, little man."

"Uh-" the boy says, glancing nervously at Rick.

"You!?" Rick says sharply, yanking the boy behind him. Ripley blinks, putting both hands up.

"Hey, uh, hi. We haven't met yet, have we? I'm the one from 46'\ and the Sanchez I was friends with is from B-11&. Have- have you met any of the other mes?" She perks up despite herself. "Can- can you tell me about'em? Do I have a family? Am I still married to Ford in the other ones? Am- am I cool?"

Rick stares at her, eyes narrowed, his single brow furrowed as he takes her in.

"No," he says finally. "We haven't met."

"Oh," Ripley says, dropping her hands. "Okay. Um... hey. So is that your son or...?"

"This is my grandson, M-Morty. Morty, this is..." Rick hesitates. "Ripley... Savage?"

"Yup, that's the name I got ever since I got this awesome scar and got all kinds of brain damage, I guess," Ripley says cheerfully, pulling her hair back to show the kid her forehead. "So, hey, I know you appreciate cutting the bullshit out of a conversation, so here we go: I need a shower, a change of clothes, a meal, and a fake ID since I haven't been in this dimension since I was nineteen and I don't even know what my original name was. In, uh. In that order. Oh, and shoes, I took my boots off to wash off in the waves and I think they got took by a bird or somethin'."

"Well, you're right about the shower," Rick mutters, fiddling with the settings on his portal gun.

"Oh, like you're one to talk," Ripley grins.

"Rick, is this really such a good idea?" Morty hisses, tugging on his grandfather's sleeve.

"Hey, don't worry, kid, I only kill people who are trying to kill me, I was joking about the assassin thing," Ripley says, trying her best to put the boy at ease. "Besides, a lot of this blood belonged to an eight-foot-tall chaos god, you know how squirty those guys can get, am I right, Sanchez?"

"Ha, yeah," Rick says, and for the first time the gray-haired old man gives her something akin to a smile. "Alright, let's get to my place before the cops show up."

He opens up a portal, grabs Ripley's (gore-encrusted) sleeve, and pulls her and his grandson through.

"Oooh, shit, Sanchez," Ripley wheezes, barely noticing the garage workshop as she leans over and clutches her knees. "You haven't fixed the vertigo thing yet?"

"Keep your eyes open n-next time," Morty mutters, and she exhales slowly through her nose.

"I'll keep that in mind. Ugh, god."

"Th-that's a lot of bitching for someone who wants an enormous favor," Rick sneers. "Let me take a look at that portal sword while Morty sh-shows you where the bathroom is, you disgusting wretch."

"Alright, shitferbrains, here," Ripley says, rolling her eyes and passing Ol' Sparky over. "Morty, thank you for your hospitality. I don't suppose I can bother you for a toothbrush, can I?"

"Eh, just use Summer's," Morty says, ushering her out of the garage.

 

** Dimension 46'\, today **

 

 

"One ticket to the awesome party, if you please," Ripley says, slapping her money down in front of Wendy with a wink.

"Hey, Aunt Ripley, you look... really nice," Dipper says, blinking. Ripley beams at him- the jeans are new and the studded leather jacket is the one she picked up in Sturgis, but the sparkly blue tank top is actually Tyler's. She's not sure why he thought she'd look okay in it, considering it's Tyler-sized and they'll probably have to cut it off of her later, but she appreciates the gesture and she's glad to see that Dipper's being raised to be polite regardless of what people are wearing.

"Wow, you're really trying to get Stan's attention tonight, aren't you?" Wendy asks, sliding a ticket over.

"Well, sure, that's what this is for," Ripley says cheerfully, waving a small red gift bag at the kids as she picks up her ticket. "I'll be back in a little bit to bring you guys some snacks after I give this to Stan."

She heads inside, scanning the room for Stan- aha. She makes a beeline for him, grabbing herself a glass of the overly-pink punch on the way- it's hot as hell in here, and she's too self-conscious about Tyler's ridiculously small tank top to take her jacket off with people around. She manages to take a sip just as Stan turns to look at her, and almost gags on the taste.

"Stan, honey, this is just sugar mixed into juice," she coughs, alarmed. "Why is this punch exclusively sugar?"

"Mabel may have had a hand in fixing it," he admits, grinning a little. "Nice of you to show up. Are you ready to... party?" He waggles his eyebrows at her, and she snickers.

"Haha, yeah. Gotta hand it to you, putting Dipper to work with Wendy was a good idea, that kid won't do anything that means leaving her side tonight," Ripley says, and he winks.

"Nah, the beauty of it was makin' the kid think it was his idea. Come on, we'll head up to the kids' room to get the book and then we'll hit my office."

"Nice." Ripley glances around, but nobody seems to notice as she and Stan slip upstairs. Ripley waits until they're in the kids' room before putting her mostly-full cup of "punch" down, peeling her jacket off with a sigh. "Oh, god, that thing is way too hot for summertime. Hey, does that whack-a-mole game still work?"

"Yeah, just gotta plug it in. Where is that..." Stan glances over at her and his eyes go huge. "Sweet Moses, lady, what are you wearing that for?"

"Aw, shut up, Stan, I know I look like a glittery blue Michelin Man right now, I just couldn't say no to Tyler when he said he wanted to dress me up," Ripley sighs, peering into the closet. "That man can be persistent when he wants to be. Anyway, I'll cover up before we get down so the townspeople ain't put off their feed by the sight."

"No, I mean-" Stan comes over, putting a hand on her shoulder. "You look good, Savage, I just... I thought you were gonna keep things PG around here."

"I know it's gross, Stan, you don't have to keep saying it," Ripley says irritably, shutting the closet door. She turns to look at him and he's just standing there, blinking.

"If you were gross I'd be the first person to tell ya," he says quietly. "I just think if some kid saw you right now he'd hit puberty early."

"Ew," Ripley says, after a moment. She tugs on the neckline, trying to adjust it higher. "Does that- that's not helping, is it? I'm sorry. Jesus. I'll get out of here as soon as we're done makin' the copies, Stan, I-"

The kiss is a surprise. It's uncomfortably familiar- his face is the same face, his scent under the cologne is the same- but the hands that tentatively come to rest on her hips are too narrow and have too few fingers, the shoulders her hands land on and squeeze are too broad and muscular. Their eyes meet and she sees the same panic and horror in his expression that she's feeling right now.

They back away from each other, and Ripley is the first one to break the silence.

"Oh my god, that was weird."

"I know!" Stan cries, looking mortified. "I thought it would help and it was gross!"

"It was super gross!" Ripley agrees, crossing her arms over her chest. "How did you think that would help?!"

"I don't know! Pretty girl says she feels gross, you kiss her so she knows she's not gross, I dunno!" Stan looks like he might throw up. "Fuckin' A, that was like kissing my sister!"

"You don't have a sister," Ripley points out, grimacing.

"Well apparently I do!" Stan snaps. They're silent for a few more seconds, before they start giggling hysterically. "Oh god, this is the worst."

"I'm cool with us pretending that never happened," Ripley says, laughing.

"Seconded," Stan agrees, lifting the mattress on what Ripley presumes is Dipper's side of the bedroom. "Hey, I found the journal and not something weird and inappropriate for a twelve-year-old. At least one good thing came out of this."

"Now we just need to get to your office," Ripley says cheerfully, pulling her jacket back on and tucking the journal under it. "Oh, before I forget- here. Happy 62nd birthday, Stan."

She holds out the red giftbag, and he blinks at it.

"Take it before I beat you to death with it, old-timer."

He carefully pulls out the little wooden box, the wood stained red, and runs his fingers over the simple drawing of a sailboat painted onto the lid.

"Open it," Ripley says, grinning faintly. He does, and the box starts tinkling a slow rendition of an old Kansas song.

_On a stormy sea of moving emotion, cast about I'm like a ship on the ocean, I set a course for winds of fortune-_

Stan snaps the box shut, hugging it to his chest. Ripley's smile fades.

"I-I got it in Portland the other day, I mean, I put the boat on it, there wasn't a box that had a boat. Ford used to talk about you, you know, the stuff he remembered, stuff you liked. Is... is it okay?"

"This is the nicest thing anybody's ever given me," he says quietly, and when he finally meets her gaze his eyes are glossed over with unshed tears.

"Aw, c'mere you," she says, wrapping her arms around him and holding him tight. "Don't cry, that'd be super gross."

"Well you bring out the grossness in me," Stan sniffles.

The door bangs open and they both jump.

"What are you doing in here?!" Dipper yelps, pushing someone behind him.

"Nothing-"

"Talking-"

Ripley and Stan blink at each other, then at Dipper.

"We were just talking and nothing weird was going on and what are _you_ doing in here?" Stan segues nicely, puffing himself up. "You're supposed to be manning the ticket table!"

"Were you making out in my room!?" he cries, looking nauseated at the thought.

"Of course not, I was just giving Stan his birthday present!" Ripley says, affronted.

"I don't want to know about that!" Dipper yells, running from the room.

Ripley drops her face into her hands. "Oh my god."

When she looks over, Stan is desperately failing to keep himself from laughing.

"What?"

"I mean, we technically were-"

"Oh god, shut up!" Ripley giggles into her sleeve, peeking out the door. "Coast seems clear, at least. Hey, that looked like a different hat Dipper was wearing. I thought he just wears the one constantly."

"I honestly couldn't tell the difference," Stan says, picking up the cup of punch she left behind. "Come on, I'll make sure the kid's where he's supposed to be before we get down to the office."

They run into Dipper again- "Jeez kid," Stan had exclaimed, "get your rear to that table, how many times do I have to tell you?"- on their way to the office. Something feels off to Ripley about all this, but she just can't figure out what's so weird about it.

The copier's already on. Ripley just puts it down as another headscratcher.

"Oh," Stan says, as she's checking the drawers to make sure there's enough paper. "I dunno if it still does this, but that thing used to be weird about making copies if you left your hand on it."

"Weird like it wouldn't make copies?" Ripley asks, sliding the drawer back in. "Stan, I really don't know how to operate this machine."

"No, like... it would print your copy but it would also print your fingers."

"That sounds about right."

"No, like... your actual fingers would come out. It pretty much clones anything that isn't paper." Ripley looks at him, then at the copier.

"Did you ever copy your privates? I bet you did."

"No! Eugh!"

Ripley chuckles. "Sinner. Okay, I'll keep my hands free. Hey- I told Dipper I would bring him snacks, maybe he's just hungry. Why don't you plate up some food and bring it out to the table team?"

"You think you can figure out how to work this baby?" Stan asks. Ripley pokes the "copy" button, and after some sputtering the machine spits out a blank sheet of paper.

"Yeah, I think I got it."

He pauses at the doorway, clearing his throat.

"We're... still fine, right?"

"Go feed your nephew, Birthday Boy." She winks at him and he grins at her.

She flips through the journal until she finds the pages that had the partial diagram on them, then frowns and realizes some of what Ford wrote was in code, so she goes back and starts looking for ciphers so she and Stan can try to figure it out later. Several frustrating minutes later, she gives up trying to select "important" looking pages and sits herself down to make copies of everything. She's most of the way done when she hears the door start to open.

"Hey, Stan, you-" She pauses, looking at Dipper with an expression that half amused and half concerned. "Sweetie, it's like you're trying to be everywhere BUT the ticket table."

"Oh- Aunt Ripley, hi," Dipper says awkwardly, looking around. Ripley squints at his hat.

"Seven? Is that like a movie reference or something?"

"Um, no. Sorry. I'll go back now," he says quickly, hurrying away.

"Earth kids are so confusing," Ripley muses, shutting the door. Less than five minutes later the door opens again- this time, it's Stan, looking rattled.

"What happened to you?" Ripley asks, glancing down. "It looks like you got some punch on your legs, man."

"I got punch on my legs," he says, scratching his head under his hat. "Well, Wendy wasn't at the ticket table, so that explains why Dipper keeps sneaking off, but the kid seemed glad to get some brownies outta me and he didn't act traumatized or nothin'."

"That's funny, I literally just saw Dipper poking his head in here," Ripley says, frowning. "Maybe he was looking for Wendy? Now I feel bad, I hope he doesn't think I'm making fun."

"Weird," Stan says, frowning back. He glances uneasily at the door, thinking for a moment, before he shakes off whatever misgivings he's having. "Bah. Now we just gotta sneak it back to his bedroom. At least now we know where he is."

"Yeah, for like, a minute." Ripley hands the journal to Stan. "You take it, I'll go see what Mabel's up to, make sure she's eating something other than sugar."

"Hah, good luck!" Stan grins, waving her out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"There you are," Ripley says quietly. She ended up clapping for Mabel as the girl competed for some sort of... party tiara with a blonde town girl, despite the fact that Ripley had no clue what she was clapping for. She had ended up cornering Wendy and asking her if she knew where Dipper might be, and the teenager had told her about the rooftop deck.

Dipper looks over at her, an empty Pitt Cola can in hand. "Oh. Hey, Aunt Ripley."

"Hey, pumpkin, why the long face?" she asks gently.

"You wouldn't understand," he says flatly.

"I might," she replies, taking a seat next to him. "Do you want to try to tell me and see if I do?"

"No," he says, sounding like he's on the verge of tears. Ripley blinks, putting a hand on his back.

"Okay, Dipper. I'm good for a listen if you change your mind, sweetheart." They sit in silence for a bit, watching the partygoers leave. After a while, he leans against her side, still cradling the empty soda can in his fingers. Ripley squeezes him a little, and he takes off his hat and stares down at the pine tree on the front.

"Can I ask a hypothetical question?" Dipper asks softly.

"I'm always good for hypothetical questions," Ripley replies.

"If there was suddenly another me. Like... a clone. What would happen to him?"

"Hmm. Tough to say. How much of a clone is this hypothetical second Dipper?" Ripley asks after a moment. "Does he think like you, have your memories?"

"Yeah." Dipper's voice was hoarse. She wonders what this is really about, giving him another sideways hug.

"Well, I suppose I would have another nephew, sweetheart. Can't have too many Dippers."

"Tyrone," Dipper mutters softly. "His name's... he would be named Tyrone."

"Tyrone Pines," Ripley repeats, trying it out. "Well, I've always been a bit of a rolling stone, but I could settle down here in Gravity Falls. Buy myself a little house, close enough to visit Stan but far enough that we don't have to endure each other's snoring. It wouldn't be the same as being home with you and Mabel, but supposin' you can't take Tyrone home to California, maybe... maybe he would like to stay with his Aunt Ripley, huh?"

"Yeah, I think he would've loved that," Dipper says wetly. Ripley cards her fingers through his hair and presses a smooch onto his forehead. She has absolutely no idea what this conversation is actually about, but it must be some sort of metaphor for something important to Dipper. It just breaks her heart that this kid's crying on the roof about whatever his problem is.

"You want to head downstairs, darlin'? We can get some more of that peach flavor soda and make some popcorn."

"Okay," he says softly. "Hey, Aunt Ripley? Please don't... please don't tell anybody about..."

"Honeybear, I don't even know exactly what it is I'm not supposed to be tellin', so I guess I have to promise I won't," she says honestly. "And hey, just... look, sweetie, your uncle and I really weren't making out in your room, you know that, right? You walked in on an awkward hug."

He blinks slowly, putting his hat back on.

"...okay," he says, looking dazed.

"Good boy. Let's go downstairs."

It's late by the time Ripley gets back to Tyler's- she's mildly surprised that he's waiting up for her, hands on his knees like he's been dying for her to get home.

"Hey, Tyler," she says, blinking. "Thanks for lending me your shirt, but I think I might've stretched it out a bit."

"Aw, that's okay. Did it work?" he asks, batting his lashes at her.

"Did... what work?" She stares at him, and then it clicks. "Were you... trying to dress me up so I would, I dunno, _seduce_ anybody tonight?"

"It did work!" Tyler crows. "Git'im, girl! So what's Mr. Mystery like? Is he the romantic old guy type or is he a rough-around-the-edges rogue fella?"

"Tyler!" she laughs, shooing him away. "For god's sake, man. It ain't like that between us, he's... he's basically my brother, for crying out loud."

"So what you're sayin' is... he saw you in that top and he didn't fall all over himself to make a move?" Tyler asks. "Because I know that top. That top has never steered me wrong yet."

"Well, he kissed me," Ripley admits. Tyler pumps his fist in the air, and she snorts. "And then it was awkward as hell and we realized how gross it was to kiss somebody who's basically your brother! Damn, Tyler."

"Drat," Tyler says, grinning. "Don't suppose there's anybody else I can try to matchmake you with while you're here, huh?"

"Just terrible," Ripley laughs. "You think this is funny, Tyler, and I'm sittin' here pretty sure I'm gonna need a jar of vaseline and a crowbar to get out of your magical shirt."

"Worth it," he tells her. It ends up taking several minutes of struggling for Ripley to get the shirt off, and she's so mentally and physically exhausted by the time she's got it off that she just hangs it back on the hanger and puts it on her doorknob in front of the "Do Not Disturb" sign.

 

** Dimension 46'\, three months ago **

 

 

It's halfway through the most awkward meal Ripley can remember ever eating when the blonde woman puts her fork down with a clatter.

"Dad, are you... going to introduce us to your friend?" she asks icily.

"Oh, you must be Beth!" Ripley pipes up, and the woman shoots her a look that cows her back into silence.

"Uh... yeah, this is Ripley, she's a... researcher who works with an old college buddy of mine," Sanchez makes up, digging into his spaghetti with one hand and looking at a tablet with his other hand.

"I'm _married_ to an old college buddy of his," Ripley corrects, giving a meek glance Beth's way. "Your dad's helpin' me out because I got a little stranded after I killed the anthropomorphic personification of gross lady chaos and a shitload of her nuns."

"Oh, great. She kills nuns," the man says, and Sanchez and his daughter give nearly identical eyerolls.

"This is the best spaghetti I've had in eighteen years, though, I love it," Ripley says.

"Brown-noser," Morty mutters next to her.

"You think it's cute and it ain't," Ripley hisses back.

"Oh, hey. I f-fixed your portal dialer," Sanchez tells her, pulling the watch-sized computer out of one pocket and tossing it over the table at her. Ripley grabs it out of midair before it can bounce into her sauce.

"Thanks, Sanchez. Fixed how?"

"As in you can actually dial in locations, instead of the haphazard bullshit you've been pulling for the past couple of years."

"Aw, thanks, man. To be honest though, I don't know how often I'm gonna use this now that I'm home." She stabs a meatball and shoves it into her mouth. "Fangks, doe."

"Whatever," he grumbles.

"Wow, this is... somehow even more awkward than dinner normally is," the redhaired teenager comments, poking her food. Ripley points at her, nodding. She assumes that's the person who owns the toothbrush she used earlier.

"Well," Ripley says, twirling noodles onto her fork. "Thank you for dinner. It's immeasurably better than ninety percent of the meals I've had in the last two decades. That ain't hyperbole."

"Oh, y-you said you have stuff from the cannibal dimension for me," Sanchez remembers, perking up. Ripley shoots him a thumb's up.

"I got you. Canned baby eyes and vague meat stews."

"Nice! Are they any good?"

"Uh..."

"Never mind, it'll be a surprise."

The two teenagers put their forks down, giving their grandfather twin looks of horror and disgust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just now realized there are several spots in other chapters where I put "46*\" instead of "46'\" because even to this day I look at an asterisk and think "yup, that's an apostrophe." I'm too tired to go around fixing it at this point. Maybe once everything's finished.
> 
> As an aside: that probably is a magic tank top. Tyler probably got it from the Love God.


	9. Chapter 9: ELLE and I

"Any plans for Pioneer Day?" Tyler asks, adjusting his coonskin hat in the entryway mirror.

"Nah, I was gonna see if Stan and the kids wanted to do something, but  Stan doesn't have a cell phone and I think he was already out of the house when I called," Ripley says, sipping her coffee and scanning over the Gravity Falls Gossiper. "Gonna be real honest though, Ty, I don't think Pioneer Day is for me."

"Aw, but we'll be having a pig roast in the town square! You could come and have lunch with me and the Corderoys!" Tyler says brightly, glancing over at her. Ripley thinks about it for a minute.

"You know what, that sounds fun. I haven't met the rest of Wendy's family yet," Ripley says, after a minute. "Hey, says here there's free admission to the Gravity Falls Museum of History today. If I'm gonna be stayin' here I should know more about the place, right?"

"Oooh, Ripley," Tyler says, eyes sparkling. "You're plannin' on moving here permanently?"

"Yeah, maybe," she tells him, grinning behind her coffee mug. "I mean, everything looks like it's headin' that way. I dunno what I'd do as a job, though."

"Well, I can always use an extra hand around here during the busy season," Tyler says brightly, and Ripley blushes, grinning.

"Hey, I might just take you up on that." Ripley glances over at him, frowning. "Hey, Ty, I've been meaning to ask- you've lived in Gravity Falls all your life, right?"

"Sure have," Tyler says, packing his wallet and phone into what looks like a moderately period-appropriate messenger bag.

"But you've never seen any of the weird stuff, like... gnomes or ghosts or whatever," Ripley says, and Tyler pauses, glancing over at her.

"You know a lot of people die young here, right?" he asks, and if it wasn't the same kind-hearted guy who's been letting Ripley stay in his inn for weeks for practically nothing, she'd be concerned. "It's usually some kind of accident, you know? Only maybe once in a while their families will ask for an autopsy, to see if there was anything in their systems. We don't have much of a drug problem here, you'd think it'd be worse, but you know, they get the tests run and there's nothing in the blood, but it ends up their brains are rotted out, like a late-stage Alzheimer's patient."

"Oh, gosh, Ty," Ripley says, blinking.

"You know my Mom was only forty-three when she passed?" Tyler asks, glancing at Ripley with a sigh. "She used to take me through the woods as a kid. Even at night. It was dangerous, but people knew how to get around without... bothering anything, back then. And then at some point people stopped doing it, all at once. Mom remembered that she used to know how to do it, but she couldn't remember what she did to stay safe. And then she didn't remember that she used to do it at all."

Tyler draws something on the countertop with his fingertip, but she can't see what it is.

"And then something happened, a little while after she passed. It was right after the Duskertons passed, too, so I must've been about eighteen. People avoided the old place- nobody ever talked about selling it, or cleaning it up, but people started talking about it, that it was haunted. Kids would go peek in there, and come out screaming, and then the next day they'd be different. Forgetful. And one time I see it. I see a couple of high-schoolers come out of there, and come runnin' out, and these people jumped out of the trees like they'd been watching for it. Waiting. They grabbed these kids and put bags over their heads, and dragged 'em off. I ran after'em. I remember that I ran after'em."

He's silent for a moment.

"But then the next thing I remember is that I was wakin' up in my own bed. I didn't remember how I got there. I didn't remember anything at all. The memories only came back in bits and pieces. I saw Rosie get married and I couldn't stop thinkin' about her kitten heels, leavin' two lines in the dirt as those men dragged her away. I went to Byrone's funeral and I remembered he tried to fight'em but they outnumbered him three to one."

"My god, Tyler," Ripley says, blinking. He shakes himself with a small sigh, and gives her a tired little smile.

"I got it pretty easy, you know. I just have to ignore the small stuff. I sit there an' wonder why the raccoons diggin' through my garbage leave tiny little bootprints, but I don't say anything because I don't know who it was that was grabbin' people twenty years ago, and I don't know who it is doin' it now. And I stay out of the forest."

Ripley frowns, looking at her mug.

"You've given me a lot to think about," she says, after a while.

"I really hope I didn't ruin town for ya. I just... feel like you ought to know a thing or two if you're gonna be here a while," he says, and she gives him a small grin.

"Hey, I'm here to stay, Ty. I'll see you at lunch, alright?" She watches him go, quietly folding up her newspaper. The entire concept of having friends long-term is a kind of a newer one for her, but she feels pretty strongly right now that Tyler, as her friend, deserves vengeance or... or closure or whatever it is that she intends, with all her heart, to deliver. She has no idea how to investigate this, however, since Tyler's warning makes it sound a lot like maybe there really isn't anyone who is either able or willing to help her.

Oh well. She washes out her mug and puts it in Tyler's dish rack. In the weeks since she's started staying here there's only been two other guests- both of them only for a single night- but he assured her that late July and all of August were busier due to all the bikers who came through on their way to Sturgis. It still seems too early in their friendship to ask him if he's inherited a small fortune or something to explain why he does so little business.

Ripley stops, glances down at herself, then sighs. She's pretty sure she's going to be spending money she really doesn't have on something pioneer-ey to wear before she meets Tyler for lunch.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ripley supposes she has only herself to blame. She really did intend to get to the Museum of History first, but people were setting up booths and displays already, and she got called in out of a crowd to participate in a high-stakes game of cornhole. Ripley has never heard of cornhole before today, but apparently it's throwing beanbags at holes in a board. (She wins a brown cowboy hat for getting second place, and jams it happily onto her head without a moment's hesitation.)

She definitely doesn't intend to stop again, but then she notices one of the booths is putting together Old West-style wanted posters with the help of a caricaturist. It's possibly the best fifteen dollars Ripley has ever spent.

Ripley barely has time to put her new wanted poster away (WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE, RATTLESNAKE RIPLEY, CHARGED WITH HORSE-RASSMENT AND GENERAL BOOT-KNOCKIN') before she runs into Susan from the diner and a guy about Ripley's age, struggling to unload several trays of cornbread muffins from the back of a Conestoga wagon. Her offer to help out is greatly appreciated, and Susan (Ripley has a hard time calling her 'Lazy,' because... well. It seems rude.) offers both of them a free muffin for their help.

"So how are you liking Pioneer Day, stranger?" Susan asks brightly, dusting her hands off on her pioneer-style apron.

"You know, I wasn't sure if I would enjoy it, but Pioneer Day's great!" Ripley enthuses, pointing out her hat. "I like how everybody gets into the old-timey stuff, it's so fun- oh! I'm not sure if we've had a chance, Miss Susan, but I'm Ripley, I've been to your diner a couple times but we haven't talked much."

Susan laughs, shaking Ripley's hand. "Well I'm glad you like it! I'm Lazy Susan, nice to meet you!"

"Thanks... Susan," Ripley grins, faltering at the nickname. It still doesn't seem polite in the slightest. She turns and extends her hand to the phenomenally quiet man who'd been helping them unload, his hat jammed down low over his eyebrows. He grunts quietly, taking her hand with his non-muffin hand. 

"Tate. S'pleasure to meet you."

"Ripley. Same." Ripley tears into her corn muffin, eyes widening as she quickly chews and swallows her mouthful so she can talk again. "Susan, these muffins are great! Do you make these on the regular menu?"

"Nah, just Pioneer Day and Thanksgiving week! Haha," Susan replies cheerfully. "I'm always glad to see somebody appreciate'em, though!"

"Aw, they're great though! I better buy a couple more to get me through the day," Ripley tells her. Susan waves off her attempt at pulling out her wallet, though.

"Nope, you're basically staff now, your money's no good here! Right, Tater-tot?"

"Okay, Mrs. Wentworth," Tate says obediently, picking up another muffin and handing it to Ripley. "Better do as she says, last time I didn't take something she tried to give me she ended up flooding my inbox with casseroles."

"You're not eating enough fiber, Tate!" Susan replies.

"Mrs. Wentworth, you can't bring perishable food items to the ranger station without telling someone. We had a raccoon infestation for a week." Ripley can't tell if Tate is mortified or not; he's doing a pretty good job of keeping his emotions reined in.

"Well, um, thank you," Ripley grins down at her muffin. It's been three months home and Ripley doesn't think she'll ever get used to how _available_ food is here.

"Tate, why don't you ask this young lady if she's going to be doing anything later?" Susan asks, manually picking up her eyelid and shutting it again. "Wink!"

"Uh, okay. Ripley, what are you doing later," Tate says, folding his arms uncomfortably and looking away.

"Uh, I was gonna go to the Museum for a bit, learn some history, and then I was going to get lunch with Tyler Cutebiker and the Corderoy family. After that, though, I don't really have any plans."

"Okay." Tate clears his throat, glancing at his watch. "Do you need anything else, Mrs. Wentworth? I'm supposed to be giving people wagon rides in a bit."

"Aren't you going to ask Miss Ripley here if she wants to go on a wagon ride?" Susan prompts sternly. Tate groans very quietly.

"Mrs. Wentworth, she's not going to want to go on a wagon ride."

"Um- actually, you know what, I've never been on a wagon ride but I have been on my feet all day. I'd like to try it out," Ripley pipes up. "If you don't mind, Tate."

He stops and sighs, clearly entreating the gods with a long-suffering expression of resignation, and offers her a hand to climb up onto the wagon. Once Ripley gets over how awkward that entire exchange was- so, about five minutes after they pull away from Susan's muffin stand- she actually starts to like it a little.

"Sorry you got roped into the wagon thing," Tate says quietly, eyes straight ahead. "Once she gets stuck on an idea she usually... sorry."

"Hey, I ain't mad. Not everyday I get to sit around watchin' a horse's ass," Ripley jokes, grinning. She is rewarded with a twitch of the lips. "So... she's like, a family friend, or...?"

"No, I- she looked out for me when I was a kid," Tate says tersely. "I moved here to live with my dad when I was twelve and he didn't really... he didn't know how to take care of a kid."

"Oh." Ripley makes a move to try to comfort this near-stranger, pulling her hand back after a moment. "Well... it's... it's nice you two are close."

"Yeah. I guess she doesn't really have anybody else, either," he mutters.

"So you're a park ranger?" she asks, and he shrugs.

"The lake and the surrounding campground is a state park."

"Must be pretty fun."

"It has its moments. I'm usually running the bait shop." Ripley nods. She thinks she spots Stan's red car down a sidestreet, but she figures jumping out of a moving wagon- even a very slow one- is a stupid idea. She'll go catch up with Stan later.

"Do you like it here, Tate?" she asks, and he spares her a short glance- for a moment, she can see his eyes, cornflower blue under the shade of his hat.

"I don't know." He thinks it over. "I used to live in Palo Alto with my mom. Then I came here and I... I hated it here. I hated that my dad disappeared out of my life for ten years and then they stuck me with him after Mom's accident. I hated where I had to live when I was with him. I hated being here in high school, the kids were brutal. I went to college up in Klamath Falls and I figured I would never come back to this shitty little town."

"Not to be intrusive or nothin', but... why _did_ you come back, Tate?" Ripley asks, curious. He sighs.

"My dad... had some kind of psychotic break, I guess."

"Oh, shit, Tate."

"He built some sort of... urban assault vehicle," Tate says, scowling skyward. "Which, I guess, thank god the laws here are so fucked up, because there's no way either of us was going to afford to pay for damages."

"Urban assault vehicle?" Ripley repeats, struggling to form a mental image. "Like- like a home-made tank or-"

"A giant fucking robot." He meets her gaze, his mouth set in a grim line. "It ended up being 80 tons and I think he was callin' it the shame-bot."

"...Tate, that's... extreme." Ripley puts her chin on her palm, fascinated. "...really?"

"Yeah. Apparently he did that when the divorce papers came, too. Some kind of giant pterodactyl robot."

"Could it fly, though?" Ripley asks, after a moment.

"I think it sorta... jumped around." Ripley glances over at him, and he shrugs stiffly.

"So... yeah. They didn't put dad in prison over any of this?" Tate's thumb worries at the hemp reins a little. "But he had to go on house arrest and they needed somebody to stay with him for a year. I guess I'm an idiot for coming back when they asked."

"You're not an idiot for coming back when your dad needed you," Ripley says quietly.

"Well, I'm an idiot for staying, then."

They ride in relative silence for a few minutes more.

"No offense, Tate, because... because I'm really honored that you're sharing this with me, but, uh, I'm honestly confused about how many people are telling me their painful personal histories today."

"Mm," Tate agrees, pulling up to the Museum. "Pioneer Day tradition. The townsfolk are pretty sure everyone was brutally honest before 1925. That's not an exaggeration. There's a town charter on the books from '25 declaring that people have the right to politely lie about painful truths or sobering backstories."

"...um, that's... kind of a weird tradition to pick up," Ripley points out. He tips his hat at her.

"You stick around Gravity Falls, you notice a lot of stuff that's just totally fucked up, and within a year you catch yourself doing most of it. Town has that effect on people. Anyway, here's your stop."

"Uh... thanks. I'll come visit you up at the lake sometime, alright?"

"That'd be nice." She climbs down and watches him drive the wagon away, one hand loosely clutching the spare muffin.

"Well," she says after a moment, demolishing her muffin in two enormously messy bites. She's still dusting crumbs off of herself by the time she reaches the pioneer girl just inside the door- another Sue, which is funny- and gets her visitor badge and free orange balloon. She ties the balloon to her wrist, figuring Mabel might want it later. The museum itself is... nice enough. Ripley takes a free pamphlet and tucks it between two of her journal's pages. She does enjoy a lot of the exhibits though- the taxidermied animals look pretty fancy. The old-timey tools and photographs are great. The wax figures of the pioneer people are... deeply disturbing.

She steps into a room dedicated to noted town optometrist, Dr. Reginald Westinghouse-Feeney, whoever that is- and she freezes, staring at dozens of eyes. Pictures of eyes. Eyes in jars. Giant models of dissected eyes. Giant, staring, unblinking, always able to see her because she could always see Ripley no matter what, always staring because she had dozens of eyes and none of them ever closed, even when Ripley started tearing them out of her body they just became gaping holes and the holes could see her and Ripley knows how boiling-hot the stuff inside her eyes was and it got in her mouth and nose and she was covered in eyes and they were open and staring and touching her and she couldn't get away and she was an idiot to think she could get away-

"-me? Excuse me? Ma'am, are you alright?"

Ripley takes several sharp breaths, bracing herself against the wall, unable to look into the room.

"Sorry," she wheezes, unable to look the man in the face. He seems nice enough. He is wearing a nametag. "I-I'm sorry, I just... I don't like... that room. Sorry. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, a lot of people get that way about the optometry room, don't worry about it," he says soothingly. Ripley nods, because she can believe that. Eyeballs are gross.

"I'm just gonna step out for a bit," Ripley mumbles, heading for the door. She almost doesn't notice that the exit's blocked by... two policemen who somehow got stuck in it, until she actually gets up close. She stares at this mess for about a minute before glancing at the beleaguered door girl, Sue.

"Is there a side exit?" she asks, and Sue nods glumly.

"Just once I'd like to host an event that didn't end in a humiliating fluff piece on the evening news," Sue tells her, sighing.

"Uh. Yeah. Happy Pioneer Day," Ripley says, beating a hasty retreat to the side exit.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ripley slides into a seat next to Tyler at the pig roast downtown, still feeling a little too green around the gills to be up to eating.

"You made it! Dan, this is my new friend Ripley, she's new in town," Tyler says, elbowing his companion. Ripley can see the family resemblance with Wendy, once she gets over how absolutely massive Dan Corderoy is.

"Hi. I've met your daughter Wendy," Ripley adds conscientiously. Dan's handshake is an experience in and of itself.

"She's mentioned you," Dan says, and Ripley mentally notes to herself that lumberjacking must be hard on the ears because this is one man who is absolutely incapable of modulating his volume. "Nice to put a face to the name. BOYS, introduce yourselves!"

"Peter," the oldest one says. He points at the next-oldest. "Michael." He puts a hand on the youngest's head. "John."

"It's real nice to meet ya'll," Ripley says, giving them a small wave. The kids do the "uncomfortable being forced to talk to an adult" shuffle in their seats for a few seconds before going back to eating lunch.

"That's a real nice hat there, Ripley," Tyler prompts, and she perks up immediately.

"I won it! I won second place doing cornhole! Oh! Look at this, Ty, I'm a horse-rasser," she says proudly, pulling the wanted posted out of her bag. "And a general book-knocker, I guess. And I got some corn muffins from Susan and I got to ride the wagon with Tate and I went to the museum. Tyler, Pioneer Day is kind of the best."

"That's great! I knew you'd like Pioneer Day!" Tyler says, lightly tapping her arm. "Didn't I say, Dan?"

"Something like that. So you were hangin' around with McGucket, huh?" Dan squints through his bushy eyebrows at Tyler. "Thought you said she was an item with Wendy's boss. How am I gonna ask Wendy for details now?"

"Tyler, are you telling everybody I have a thing with Stan?" Ripley asks, appalled.

"Wendy mentioned you're Stan's ex-wife," Dan admits loudly. Ripley sinks down in her seat a little as people from other tables glance over at the noise.

"Oh my god. Small town gossip mill is a real thing," she says quietly, burying her face in her hands.

"Sorry," Tyler says, not sounding sorry at all. "So... so this means you're eyeballin' Tate McGucket now, huh? Interesting choice. Very stoic."

"No," Ripley says in a strangled tone. "I'm not eyeball- ugh! I'm not interested in dating anyone right now! I'm just... I'm reconnecting with my family and I'm making new friends in this town, that's all. Please don't hook me up with anybody, Tyler, I'm not for that."

Tyler strokes his chin, elbowing Dan again. "Dan, put on your thinkin' face."

Dan sighs and starts stroking his beard, his other hand still clutching a shank of pork.

"So you know who else is single right now?"

Ripley exchanges a helpless glance with Peter, who shrugs at her. "They've been on a matchmaking kick ever since that one musician started staying at our house during Woodstick."

"Toby De-" Dan says uncertainly.

"Shandra Jimenez!" Tyler interrupts triumphantly. "I could introduce you if you want!"

"Tyler, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but please just... let me get settled into town before you start trying to marry me off," Ripley says, drumming her fingers on the table.

"Oh, but-"

"TY," Dan booms. "Leave the little lady alone about the dating thing!"

"Oh, alright," Tyler pouts. Ripley feels pretty sure that too many meals with this family will result in permanent hearing loss. She checks her phone- still no call back from Stan, which is disappointing-

-Ripley pauses, looking up as something Tyler and Dan said earlier finally catches up with her.

"Tate McGucket?" she asks suddenly, startling Tyler slightly. "Is he... any relation to-"

"Old Man McGucket?" Dan asks roughly. "Yup."

"Old Man McGucket," Ripley repeats, and Tyler frowns.

"You're not eating. Aren't you hungry?"

"I was just gonna grab something to take with me. I was going to make a few more stops, maybe grab dinner with Stan and the kids. Hey, have you seen them around?" she thinks to ask, and Michael waves an arm at her.

"Oh! I did, I saw the girl one. She was on stage with the rich people," he says proudly.

"Thank you, Michael," Ripley says gravely, standing. "Well, I'd better go lookin' for my family, get some Pioneer Day fun times in with them. Dan, Corderoys, it was wonderful to meet ya'll finally. Tyler, always a pleasure."

 Ripley ends up buying something called "Steak-on-a-Stick" which... she doesn't think pioneer peoples really ate, but it was the smallest non-corndog thing she could get to-go. It takes a solid fifteen minutes of eating while walking before she finally spots Stan... in the stocks. Ripley doesn't think they had stocks in the Old West, either. She hurries over to him, more than a little horrified at how red his face is.

"Stan, honey, how long have you been in there?" she asks, and he squints up at her.

"Ugh, too long. What's with the hat? Don't tell me you're buying into this Pioneer Day malarkey."

"Stan, this is serious. Your _back,_ " she says, trying unsuccessfully to unlock the stocks. "Stan did- did they seriously lock you in this thing for hours? You could have got heat stroke and died or some shit!"

"Tell me about it! Pioneer Day is the worst!" Stan snaps. Ripley sighs and takes his fez, putting her hat on his head instead. "Get this garbage off my body, Ripley, seriously."

"You're not getting any more sunburned than you already are," she replies sternly, popping a squat next to him and putting his fez on herself. "Stan, have you eaten yet?"

"Eh, Soos came by with lemonade and popcorn," he grumbles. "I'll live."

"Steak onna stick, Stan," Ripley says, holding it in front of his mouth.

"I'm not biting that."

"Steak! Onna stick!" Ripley waves it with a little flourish. "Smell it, Stan, it's tantalizing. Come on."

"It's Pioneer Day garbage!" Stan protests.

"Stan sweetie," Ripley whispers. "You're wearing a cowboy hat and you're trapped in the stocks until I can figure out how to get you out. Just accept that you, too, are Pioneer Day garbage."

She waggles the steak enticingly. He sighs, rolling his eyes, and takes one small, grudging bite.

"See? It's pretty good." Ripley sighs, looking over the lock. "Well, the good news is, I carry my lock picks at all times for exactly this reason."

"Why didn't you do that first?!" Stan asks, affronted.

"Half my kit's for the weird electronic kind," Ripley says, glancing over at him. "And I wanted to make sure I could unlock this one before I got your hopes up."

"I could pick it myself if I hadn't lost my hairpin," Stan grumbles.

"I know, sugar, but here we are," Ripley says consolingly. "Bite off what you want from the steak- 'bout to toss it so I can use both hands." He sighs heavily and takes another, equally puny bite. She shrugs and stuffs her face, standing and walking just far enough away to toss the stick and what's left of the meat into a garbage can nearby. She takes a couple of picks out of her bag and gets to work, humming lightly.

"So... you said the good news is that you carry your kit around all the time," Stan says quietly. "What's the bad news?"

"Bad news is that I do it because of how many times I've had to break your brother out of places," Ripley mutters. "Heaven help that man the first time he got locked up without me around."

"Ah. You keep sayin' it, but I still have such a hard time imagining him actually... doing anything wrong."

"Stan honey, once he couldn't find a battery and defaulted to "destroying the planet to skim off the kinetic energy" or whatever. He's a tornado of wrong that thinks he's right. Trust me, I don't know how Ford survived without somebody to talk sense into him every other day." Her smile freezes as she pops the lock, releasing Stan. "I mean- obviously that's, that's just- he's fine, he's okay. That was a joke. I mean, not really, but he... I'm sure he's been traveling with a buddy since we left. He's still safe."

"I know he is," Stan says, standing and rubbing his aching back. "I need a shower. The townspeople got real into character throwin' tomatoes and whatever."

"Stan, I'm going to have to have a word with someone, I may not have a fancy college education but I'm positive they didn't do that in the Old West," Ripley says firmly, putting an arm around his waist. "You are a little ripe. I wasn't going to say anything. Where's your car?"

"Got stuck in mud on a sideroad," Stan sighs.

"Oh, well. Guess you guys are comin' in the Ripleymobile, then," she says cheerfully.

"Yeah," Stan agrees. "So... where'd you learn to pick locks like that, anyway?"

"Ford gave me my first kit on my birthday once," she explains, giving him a small smile. "We both could do it, but he's better with a gun so I usually ended up doing locks while he put down cover fire to keep people from takin' pot shots at me."

"Oh." Stan looks like he wants to say more- wants to ask more, wants to hear more about the brother he hasn't had a chance to know in over forty years- but the twins run up, looking messy and exhausted.

"Grunkle Stan! Aunt Ripley!" Mabel cries. She's wearing a top hat, Ripley notes. Dipper's running after her, looking smug. "Grunkle Stan, you've got the Pioneer Day spirit!"

"What? No I don't, this is your aunt's!" Stan quickly switches their hats, and Ripley giggles into his shoulder.

"Dang, I thought you'd forget about the hat. Hey, kids, look at this cool hat i won playin' cornhole! That's a real game that exists!" she adds proudly. "And I got a wanted poster made! Just call me Rattlesnake Ripley, notorious horse-rasser! And Stan was in the stocks all day, he's going to need extra lovey-dovey family time to make up for it."

"It was pretty terrible," Stan admits. "Gideon pelted me with tomatoes, and then that Northwest girl had the townspeople pelt me with more tomatoes, and then Soos came and talked to me for like, an hour."

"You've been through so much," Mabel says sympathetically.

"Well, Mabel and I uncovered a hundred-year town conspiracy!" Dipper pipes up. "Turns out Nathaniel Northwest _didn't_ discover Gravity Falls!"

"Good thing I didn't bother learning that guy's name!" Ripley says, holding out a hand for Dipper to high-five. "Up top, little man. Pioneer justice!"

"Nice!" Mabel says. "Pioneer justice!"

Stan gives them a puzzled, tired smile, patting Mabel's shoulder. "So, what's with the top hat, kid?"

"I am now a Congressman," Mabel says, puffing out her chest.

"Pardon me?" Stan asks, blinking.

"You are now officially pardoned!" Mabel says, waving her hand. Ripley snorts a laugh.

"Come on, guys. It's just a block to my car, I'll drive you home."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"This is hell. This is hell that I'm in right now," Stan groans, shambling stiffly into his armchair once the kids are safely ensconced in their beds. "How am I going to run the Mystery Fair tomorrow?"

"You're over-extending yourself, old man," Ripley says grimly, giving him a hand as he takes a seat. She plops down on the carpet in front of him, leaning comfortably against his knees. "What's the Mystery Fair?"

"It's a fair I put on twice a year," he tells her, massaging his wrists. "Mostly because the rentals at the nearest supplier go for a weekend minimum and I usually split the costs with the Pioneer Day clowns in the summertime. It's been so busy around here with the kids around, I freakin' forgot."

"Yeah, but what makes it different from a regular fair?" Ripley persists.

"It's a _mystery_ ," Stan says, and she snorts. He chuckles, playing idly with her ponytail. "Glad to see somebody appreciates the comedy around here."

"Yeah, yeah, you have twenty years of tv and movies to catch me up on, put on a show," Ripley orders, waggling a finger at him. He obliges, picking up the remote and flipping channels until they find an episode of Friends. They watch in somewhat confused silence, waiting until the commercial break to speak. "Stan, i-is... is this show... well-loved?"

"Kind of. Didn't you ever see any episodes before you went portal-hoppin'?" he asks, scratching his chest through his undershirt.

"Nah. I was abducted in summer of '94," she says, frowning.

"Oh, I think you just missed it, then. Well, it's been around for eighteen years and it's still in syndication, so I guess somebody likes it," he says slowly. She turns around to crane her neck at him, eyes narrowed. He shrugs helplessly. "Don't look at me in that tone of voice, lady, I didn't do it."

"Excuses, excuses," Ripley sniffs, shifting back into a comfortable position and patting his knee. They watch another ten minutes of the show, neither of them apparently able to look away, and it's during another meaningless set of commercials when she sighs heavily. "So apparently town tradition today to talk about painful personal shit and whatever."

"Don't, I just ate," Stan says, and she pokes him behind the knee, right in the soft spot, making him squirm. "Augh, jeez. Fine, but I'm listening under duress."

She chuckles softly, rolling her head back against his knee. She hasn't had this kind of easy familiarity with someone- well, an adult- since Ford. (She refuses to count Natashoggoth, who made an abhorrent game out of finding ways to touch her. Just. No.)

"It was really hard to get home," Ripley says after some thought, fidgeting with the brim of her new hat. "Sometimes I'm not all the way sure I did. That god I killed, she was... hunting me, I guess. She was working for the... god or being or whatever it was that hunted Ford. She fucked with me a lot. There was... there was a really big body count. And she could get in my head and make me see or think things, she liked to hurt me, get other people to hurt me, even got me to hurt myself a... a few times. A year ago she almost got me to cut my own face off. I was... I was really close to doing it, I carved this line into my face with a blunt old.... It just felt like the right thing to do. I was seeing... a lot of shit around me that, that I know logically couldn't be real, but I'm there with her, in that place, and I... I could believe that she was the only person who loved me when she got going like that. I, I know, that's... I know I sound fucked up when I say that."

"Sounds like this god was a bitch," Stan growls, putting a hand on Ripley's shoulder. She reaches up to squeeze it.

"So I don't cut my face off, somebody stops me, and I get better. And it takes me nine months to figure out how to kill her, when to do it, you know, I actually had to have my idiot genius friend rig me up with a time travel portal just so I could get to the one place in history that I know she died in, right? Like, hundreds of years in the past. At this point I'm beyond giving fucks about starting a time paradox, because she tried, she tried to make it out like I was going to belong to her like, like I would give in at the last minute, like I would help her, like I would help remake her, like-"

Ripley takes a deep breath, and Stan squeezes her fingers.

"She almost got me anyway, Stan. She..." Ripley swallows. "She was in my head for years after me and Ford got separated. I never knew when she was gonna pop back up. I killed her three months ago and I still, I still dream about her, I still... I still think I can hear her sometimes. Like maybe I'm not even real, like, maybe I'm still her fucking plaything or something."

Stan is silent for a while, before reaching down and using both hands to squeeze her shoulders. "Hey, Ripley."

"Yeah, Stan?" she asks softly.

"I'm real. The kids are real. So. That has to mean you're real, too."

"Sounds about right," she sniffles, leaning back against his legs. He leans back, resting one hand on top of her head for a few minutes.

On screen, Ross says something, and the females next to him shoot him a look that Ripley can't really interpret. Cue the laugh track.

"Well," Stan says, after a minute or two. "In the spirit of fairness or... Pioneer day or whatever. I don't know what you're goin' through, because... obviously..."

"Yeah, obviously," Ripley agrees, wiping her face on her sleeve.

"But I know what it's like to not... be sure. To be scared that maybe you never got out of there, that maybe you're still locked in a rubber room with nobody who's willin' to come when you call." He idly cards the tips of his blunt, callused fingers through her hair, messing it up a little. "So... you know. If you ever get to where you need a reminder. You can just... let me know."

"You're a treasure, Stan Pines, you know that," she says softly, and he huffs a laugh as she stands. " _And_ you're an asshole, now I gotta... fix my dang hair...."

"Fix your hair all you want, not like it'll make a difference," he teases, and she smacks his shoulder. "Owww, you see this? This is- this is elder abuse, that's what it is."

"You're a gross old fart factory," Ripley tells him, putting her hair back up in a ponytail. "Ugh, you got me having emotions and feelings. Gross."

" _You're_ gross," he replies maturely. "Leavin' so soon?"

"Eh, I'd better. Parking was a nightmare in town, I'm gonna walk home."

"It's kinda late to walk, don't you think?" he asks, frowning.

"Stan, pumpkin, I'll be fine. It may have been like, emotionally gross, but I did murder the shit out of a chaos god. I'll be okay if I run into another 'coyote' or whatever," she adds casually, doing the finger quotes at him. "Besides, I'll get a decent amount of sleep and then we can, you know, do your whole... Mystery Fair... dealie."

"If you're sure," Stan says, and she leans down to peck his forehead.

"Mwah. I'm sure. Love ya, Stan."

He rolls his eyes and mumbles "olive juice," which she finds to be an acceptable alternative.


	10. Last Chapter: Face to Face

Ripley's first mistake is walking home after eleven, knowing it's an hour's walk, knowing that things around town are a little extra chaotic today.

She walks to the bed and breakfast from Stan's place and keeps an eye on the trees of the forest, anticipating another ambush from a wild animal or otherworldly creature, and that's her second mistake.

She almost doesn't notice the van when it passes by on the other side of the road, and she really doesn't notice when it makes a u-turn and heads back her way. She slows to a stop as it pulls up beside her, waiting to see what they want, and that's her third mistake.

Three men in red hooded robes jump out and that symbol she's seen graffitied around town- the ex-eye, not the muffin- is prominently placed on the fronts of their low hoods. Ripley has enough time to realize that she's in deep shit before she spots that one of them is holding rope and one of them is holding a coarse black bag. She turns and sprints into the treeline, and she can hear them behind her.

"Stop!" one calls, too close. "We're trying to help you!"

"Go fuck your mother!" Ripley snaps over her shoulder, dodging an outstretched hand and zigging to the left. She's in trouble, she knows she's in trouble, she doesn't know this forest nearly well enough to be able to know where she's headed, if she's going towards a bear den or some kind of dragon nest or whatever. She can't- she _doesn't_ want to take out her plasma sword. It's- she can't. She doesn't want to kill a human in this small human town, doesn't want the attention a murder would bring to Stan's door, the investigation that would come of a corpse mutilated by energy blade. She has to run, there's no other choice.

She trips and lands hard on her hand and knees, skinning her palm on tree bark on the way down. Her glasses are no longer on her face, and she is torn between getting up and running blind, or pawing through the underbrush to find her glasses in the dark and risking being caught.

There's a heavy crunch- a foot landing squarely on the delicate tangle of metal and glass that lets Ripley see the world around her- and the decision is made for her.

"There's no need to be like that, _Arlene_ ," a familiar voice says, even if all Ripley can see is a huge dark lump looming over her. She scrambles to her feet, breathing hard. "Of course, Arlene ain't your real name, now is it?"

"Well, well, Bud Gleeful," she says, hands clenching into fists. "Dressed up like the Klan and kidnappin' women, huh? Fuckin' nice."

"Language," Bud admonishes. "Now, we're just tryin' to protect ya, Miss, and nobody here wants to rough you up none, so please, try to remain calm."

"I didn't want to have to kill anybody here, but you're tryin' my fuckin' patience," Ripley snarls. "Get outta my face before I break you, big man."

"Fellas, I'm over here, come- _ufffff_ ," he wheezes out, as she lands three sharp punches against the center of his chest. She makes it a handful of steps away before one of his pals- a skinny, wiry guy, by the feel of it- collides bodily with her, knocking both of them to the forest floor. She claws at the knife- Buck's knife- sheathed at the back of her jeans, pulling it from her belt in time to see him pull out something that looks like one of Ford's weird little homemade rayguns. The hooded man jabs the barrel against her face, his hand shaking.

"You even think about using that knife and you're history, woman," he tells her.

"Get _offa **me**_ ," Ripley growls, and something in her voice and face makes the man startle back slightly, shifting his weight enough that she shoves him back and sends him sprawling. The raygun fires off, illuminating the forest in bright blue-white light, and Ripley can see the other two- Bud staggering closer, the other man a few yards away, both of them too blurry for her comfort. She blinks and it's like- double vision, maybe, only instead of seeing two images it's three, it's four, it's seven. She blinks, already woozy from the weird, contrary perspective.

"What are you?" the man asks, pointing the gun at her again.

" _ **Pissed off**_ ," Ripley says, and she can hear it, the way her voice is echoing, the way she's speaking in tandem with herself; she can feel her throat open and move around the words.

She is so, so fucked.

Ripley takes a chance and bolts, running full-tilt in a direction- _any_ direction- _away_ from this. She can hear the man she left cry out, _monster it was a monster it wasn't human_ , and when she looks back over her shoulder at him he's got his gun to his own forehead and his face is engulfed in too-bright light. It's her. It's her fault. She did that, she-

She runs.

"Arlene!"

Ripley's lungs are burning, her gut is roiling, she can't stop because if she does she'll throw up.

"Arlene, wait!" Bud calls out, catching up. She whirls, taking a few steps back.

" ** _Forget you saw me!_** " she screams, and she has enough time- blurry, barely visible in the moonlight, at too many conflicting angles- to see his face go strange and slack.

She runs.

She runs.

She runs.

She-

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ripley wakes up screaming, her throat raw. She claws her fingers against her face and neck, searching desperately for the eyes and mouths she knows are there, bursting into frustrated, terrified tears when she cannot find their trace.

There is light. Hours must have passed, if it's morning now. She tries to take a deep breath, tries to calm down enough to assess her situation, figure out where she is. She can't. She can't because she's a monster she can't because she's filth she can't because she can't stop sobbing and she can't see through her tears and her skin is itching and she tries, again, to claw away the eyes that she _knows_ were opening on her face and neck and chest last night, she knows because she saw-

Her hand tangles in the chain around her neck and she clutches tightly at the stone pendant, cold and unmoving and as much a part of her as anything else is.

She gets shakily to her feet. Her backpack is still on, which is good. Her sword, her journal, her lock picks, her phone-

Ripley takes a deep breath, taking off her backpack and pulling out the phone. It doesn't turn on, no matter how many times she hits the on button.

"Useless," she mutters, and it's just her own voice, just herself, just one mouth with just one tongue.

She moves on autopilot, searching for Buck's knife. It's gone. She mechanically takes her belt off to remove the empty sheath, stares down at the belt with the realization that she's not up to putting it back on, shoves it into her backpack and zips it shut.

Ripley looks up. The canopy is too dense- she can't see enough of the sky to see where the sun is, can't tell what time it is, can't tell what direction she's going in. Everything is blurry- she scrubs at her eyes, but it doesn't help. Everything more than ten feet away is blurry. Everything more than forty feet away is incomprehensible.

"Useless," she repeats hollowly.

 She walks, shoulders hunched, head down. She is at war- half of her sure that whatever it is, Ford will fix it, Ford will help, Ford can do it because Ford's a genius and he loves her and she'll get him back. The other half is pleading on an endless loop: it didn't happen. It couldn't happen. It was dark. She couldn't see. She doesn't know what she saw. If she'd really- if she'd really looked like that- if she'd really had a bunch of eyes and mouths open up they would still be there they would still be there in her skin open gaping _wrong_ -

She realizes she is curled up on her knees, pressed against a tree, her fingernails raking over the raw, tender skin of her face and neck. She stops herself, staring blankly at her fingers, at the blood caked under her nails, at the sore, red surface of her palm, dirt and bits of bark embedded in the scrape. She should have killed them. It's good she didn't kill them. ~~Natashoggoth~~ SHE would have wanted her to kill them. If she'd had her sword in her hand she would have done it. If that man had kept his gun on her any longer than he did she would have buried Buck's knife in his femoral artery.

It occurs to Ripley, suddenly and horribly, that even if she's not being taken over or turned into a monster, she probably... she probably shouldn't be around people.

She probably shouldn't be around _the kids_.

She presses the side of her face into the tree bark, shaking.

Some time passes- forty-three minutes, her traitorous brain provides- and she realizes she can hear the sound of running water. It's got to be the same river that ends in a fall and empties into Lake Gravity Falls. She licks her cracked lower lip and realizes she's... actually pretty thirsty.

Ford would get up and get a drink, she reminds herself. She gets up and starts walking, concentrating hard to try to follow the sound of the water. It takes embarrassingly long to find it, and when she does realize where it is she breaks into a limping jog. It's... it's nice. It's clear. It's clean and cold and fast. She eases herself onto her knees in the mud- feeling a dull mouthful of anger at Stanford for breaking them, dismissing it just as quickly- and washes her hands in the water, everything below her wrists shocked into numbness.

She looks at her reflection, distorted by the movement of the clear water but still her. Two eyes, one mouth, two large scars, maybe a dozen small ones, maybe another dozen pink-red streaks, some of which are bleeding.

Ripley fights the urge to cry again, dipping her cupped hands in the water and bringing it to her lips to drink. She lowers her hands again, and there is a dark shape reflected in the water, across the stream.

She looks up and blinks slowly. It's... a bear. It's a lot of bears. It's eight bear heads and she's not entirely sure how many bear-arms and bear-legs.

"Hello," it says cautiously. "Can you... understand me? Do you need help?"

She shrugs, looking down at the water. If it wanted to cross the brook and kill her it would only take a few seconds, surely.

"M'lost," she says hoarsely, surprising both of them.

"I can see that," the bear(s) replies.

"...Poly-Blackbear?" she tries, after a moment.

"Multibear," it corrects gently and politely. "Have we met?"

"Bi-Grizzly," Ripley says, letting her hands dangle in the water.

"Ah. Distant cousins," it explains. "Ma'am? Are you injured anywhere I can't see?"

Ripley inhales deeply, shrugging. It moves closer, not the flash of speed she'd expect but a careful, obvious approach.

"Can you stand?"

She thinks of the lovely walking stick collecting dust in her room at Tyler's. She shakes her head.

"Knees are bad," she says, and it crouches and offers her its paw.

"Let's get you home, hm? Now, where should you be?"

"Shack," she says softly. "Mystery Shack."

"Ah. Therein lies the problem, Ma'am. I simply can't get you close to the Shack right now; there are far too many tourists in the area. It's not safe," it says, sounding apologetic.

"Oh, the Fair. That's... that's today," Ripley says dully.

"Precisely. However, I believe I have a reasonable alternative. Would you object to being carried?"

"I... guess not."

"Alright, then. Let's go." It scoops her up in a pair of its arms; the process and the odor are both terribly unpleasant. She finds herself, uncomfortably, making eye contact with one of its faces, and tries to avoid it by looking down at herself as much as possible.

"So," the Multibear says, and its voice hits something in the back of Ripley's mind that thinks _Grandad_ when it speaks. "How did you end up in the middle of the forest?"

"I was walking along the road and those men jumped out, tried to grab me. I ran." She sighs, touching her face. "I lost my glasses."

"Well, that certainly explains how you got to be lost," it says agreeably. "There weren't any other humans for miles around where I found you, though. Which men were these?"

"Red hoodie guys," Ripley says, folding her arms. "With the exxed-out eye mark on their hoods. Seen'em in town before."

"I've heard a little bit about them, but I must confess, they tend to avoid the woods here. Did they hurt you?"

"Nah," Ripley says, after a minute. "Not really."

"So you did that to yourself? Your face is bleeding."

"I... I did, but, it's... complicated. I thought I had a good reason." When she glances at it, the bear has several of its faces gazing evenly in her direction, patiently waiting it out to hear the rest of her explanation. "I thought I was... turning into somebody else."

"Did you have a good reason to believe that to be true?" it asks. Ripley shrugs uncomfortably, curling around herself a little.

"Maybe. She said... she said that the person who killed her was her most loyal servant, that they rebirthed her. And I figured I went back in time and killed her before that person could come along, but... I guess... she was saying it was me all along. I don't know. I don't know how it worked."

"Ah. So was... she... the only person who you know that would have thought that might happen?"

"It wasn't just her. Hyde used to say- that's somebody who was a teacher of mine- Hyde used to say that people who killed gods were cursed. That the fabric of reality punishes a god-killer by killing a piece of them." Hyde had lost more than an eye and an arm when he killed Glaurachnast.

"This Hyde sounds like a poet," the Multibear replies.

"Mm. I think he used to be." She does not add that Hyde could be terrifying, that an insectile clicking came out from behind his eyepatch and sometimes the vermin of the forest responded in kind. She does not add the stories Hyde told her- meant to dissuade her from her task as much as it was meant to teach her what would need to be done- about Herakles, about Judas, about Set, about Hodr. She does not add that Hyde went to battle to avenge a wife and two of his four children, and the remaining two died at his hand. "He... killed some sort of... evil spider god. It about ruined his life."

"Maybe it did, maybe it didn't," it says thoughtfully. "But did it ruin him as a person?"

Ripley frowns. Hyde would have said yes, but... "No. He was a good person. He tried to be a good person. It wasn't his fault, everything that happened, and he went around trying to make up for it."

"I see. This god you killed- this god you're so afraid of becoming. If she were here, what would she have done?"

"She..." Ripley swallows, not even wanting to envision it. "She would have hurt people. Dipper and Mabel. Stanley. She would have hurt'em just to make it so I couldn't love anybody else."

"Is that something you would ever do?" it asks. Ripley shakes her head.

"Before you killed her, surely you were afraid. She was a god. Did you go into the situation thinking you were doomed to fail?" it asks.

"No," Ripley says quietly.

"And why is that?"

"Because they... they're only as big as you think they are," Ripley says slowly, and the Multibear's furry chest rumbles with a noise she can't identify. "Because I knew she was strong, but I knew I was strong enough to do it. Because I had to do it."

"And now imagine that the worst is true," the bear continues. "And she has left a piece of herself alive in you, waiting. Is that small piece of her really so much stronger than the sum of her parts?"

Ripley is silent for a few minutes.

"I'm scared," she says, after a while.

"It is natural to be so," it replies. "But all evidence seems to indicate that, whatever else you may be right now, you're still yourself enough to be a good person. For what it's worth, I've met Dipper Pines. He spoke very highly of his newfound Aunt. I'm presuming that person is you."

"Yeah," Ripley says, blinking and wondering when that might have happened.

"And I've had my dealings with... Stan Pines as well, over the years. Both of them."

"Yeah," Ripley says in a small voice. "So've I."

"Ah. So an Aunt by covenant, not blood? It can be hard for me to tell if humans look alike or not sometimes."

"Yeeeah." The next several minutes pass quietly, as it lumbers through the forest with the surety of purpose. Ripley tentatively puts a hand on the Multibear's... chest-necks. "You're pretty good at talking people down from a ledge, you know that, right?"

"I get a surprising amount of practice," it tells her. "Plus, I do have eight brains. It stands to reason I'd be... _smarter_ than the average _bear_."

Ripley has to clap a hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing. One of the heads winks at her.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It is approaching dusk when they get to a part of the forest where the trees are thin enough to let them see the sky. Ripley can't figure out what the small building next to the lake is, even after a man in green comes out and points what she assumes is a gun in their direction.

"You know you can't be seen here," Tate says, his voice tinged with an unidentifiable emotion. "Lucky it wasn't any darker or you'd have been bearsprayed."

"She needs human help," the Multibear says mildly. "And she did save Dunmus the Faun from the chupacabra last week."

"That was you?" Tate asks, and Ripley sighs.

"Small town gossip mill in the paranormal forest, too? Yeah, I... yeah. I guess. I got poked pretty bad right here by the chupacabra, too, so if you want to give me any sympathy I'll take it," Ripley adds, pointing at her arm. "Just coz it's healed don't mean it _feels_ better."

"Did the chupacabra fuck your face, too?" Tate asks bluntly.

"Sure, why not," Ripley says tightly. The bear sighs, putting her down on her feet.

"She needs a ride to the Mystery Shack. She was attacked by that cult you mentioned, the ones who go after anyone who witnesses the true nature of Gravity Falls."

"Ah. What'd they want you for?"

"Who knows?" Ripley sighs. "Maybe somebody saw me perform an exorcism at the Dusk 2 Dawn."

Tate turns slowly to look at her. "...the Dusk 2 Dawn burned to the ground a few days ago."

"I didn't say it was a _clean_ exorcism. Could I please use your phone charger? My thing's dead."

"...fine. Come on, I have a first aid kit in there, too."

"Wait." Ripley turns to look at the Multibear, and it shuffles closer and puts a heavy paw on her shoulder. "Your nephew knows how to find me. If you ever want to talk again."

"...yeah, I'll, uh. I'll probably be taking you up on that," Ripley admits. "Thank you for all your help today."

Tate looks up as she limps in, just in time to catch her stifling a laugh in the crook of her elbow. "What's so funny?"

"It's the second time in as many days some hairy, smelly old beast offered to be a listening ear if I was feelin' all sad and psychological. You got to admit that's funny, Tate."

She can't tell exactly, but she thinks he rolls his eyes at her.

"Plug your phone in while I clean your face." He is quick and efficient- used to doing it for himself and other park rangers, maybe, or the stray hiker. "You know they're going to keep coming for you, right? The... cult or whatever it is. Long as you keep doing weird shit here."

"Mmhmm," Ripley agrees, thinking back to things Ford's said in the past, things she's spotted on the fly while leafing through Dipper's journal. "But not you though, right? You've seen some stuff here at the lake, right, but they never gone after you."

"What are you getting at," he says softly, cleaning the scratches on her face.

"Creepy eyeball shit. Floating head island shit. The... gobble-wonker. Right? I've been here five minutes and they've gone after me. You've been here how many years, Ranger Tate?"

"Get to the point," he tells her, dabbing on some kind of ointment.

"You know, the kids think it's real sad that you don't get on with your dad," she says, her tone low. "They think it's real sad that you're too busy, too embarrassed, to spend time with him. But that ain't it, is it? They're twelve, so maybe that's all they can imagine, all they can understand, I dunno. But ain't it at all. Right, McGucket?"

He refuses to meet her gaze.

"The people in this... cult or whatever. They never went after you because they were told specifically not to. Right?"

"I dunno," he admits. "Maybe... maybe when I was a kid. I don't know if anybody remembers that much anymore."

"They make people forget," Ripley says quietly. "So sometimes they make themselves forget, too, right?"

Tate sighs, putting away the first aid kit. "Sometimes I'd catch him doing it to himself if he thought I wasn't around. When I got older it happened every time I got in a fight with him. He'd be sorry... and then the next day he wouldn't remember that we fought. I was sixteen the first time he forgot who I was or why I was in the house."

Ripley exhales slowly. "Jesus, Tate."

"He hasn't... been involved with them in years. I know he hasn't. They don't pay attention to him anymore. And sometimes it isn't even... sometimes he remembers that I'm his son. I bring him clothes and food, and sometimes he knows what to do with it. And I used to think it meant he was gettin' better. And then he'd... _build_ something. It got to where _he_ was the reason people were getting snatched off the street." Tate sighs. "So... I figured... maybe keepin' him away from people would at least protect them, even if I couldn't protect him."

"Well," Ripley says, cracking her knuckles. "I can't say how that's working out for you, as I have yet to meet your father, but I've heard... a lot of things about him. And not to put too fine a point on it, but I think he might be able to help me with a project of my own. So. I guess I'm adding this to my list."

"Ripley." Tate waits until she's looking fully at him. "...please. Don't... don't do anything that might make them... pay attention to him again. I don't know what will happen to what's left of him if they... if they do it to him again."

"Well," Ripley says, thinking carefully. "While I can't promise that exactly, as I don't know what the future holds, Tate, I... I can promise that if anything happens, I'll-"

"Ripley," Tate interrupts. "Appreciate the sentiment, but revenge ain't gonna help my dad if that does happen."

She falls silent, and he busies himself around the ranger station for a few minutes before clearing his throat.

"You could use my phone to call your family if you need a ride out of here," he says. "I gotta stay."

"I understand." She does, honestly. She makes a quick phone call, too tired to answer Stan's questions, and makes a second one while she's waiting, just to let Tyler know she's alive and not to expect her tonight, either. Ripley makes a point of taking Tate's hand, just before Stan's car- just a long low blur of red with lights in front to Ripley's eyes- pulls up. "Hey, Tate? Thank you. It's... it's really nice to know there are people I can trust here."

"Yeah." Tate adjusts his cap. "Next time you visit, try to be less dramatic."

"Ain't promisin' nothin'," Ripley grins at him, waving him goodbye as the door opens and two very small shapes she's reasonably sure are the twins come running up. She's not sure what the third, smaller shape is. Some kind of dog? Where did the kids get a dog?

"Aunt Ripley! Aunt Ripley, where are your glasses!?" Mabel cried.

"What happened to your face?" Dipper asks sharply. Ripley's glad she can't read the expression Stan must be wearing right now.

"That's a very good question. The answer is, well, I got... lost."

"That isn't an answer to either of our questions," Dipper points out.

"T-twigs? Branches? You know, I fell in... brambles, so, you know. This is normal, falling and crashing through... undergrowth mess. And that, too, is how I lost my glasses. By the way, they were stepped on, and I lost the pieces, so, you know, I'm going to need a ride to the eye doctor tomorrow. Say, let's get home, guys, I expect to be told why you guys got a puppy without my input," she adds brightly, pointing at the small shape.

"Okay, well, first, that's Waddles, he's a pig," Mabel giggles. Dipper is silent- she really hopes he isn't shooting her one of his suspicious looks, that would make her feel incredibly guilty right now.

"Get in the car," Stan says gruffly. "You can tell us what happened on the way back to the Shack."

"Okay, Grunkle Stan," the kids sigh, piling into the backseat with the pig cradled in Mabel's arms. Ripley gets into the front passenger side, clutching her backpack across her lap. She waits until they're on the road before speaking.

"Stan, you were right about walking home last night. I'm sorry," she says softly. He grunts in response. "How... how was the fair, you guys?"

"I got Waddles at the fair!" Mabel chirps, and the pig finally makes a noise that Ripley can identify as a pig noise.

"And Wendy is, I guess, dating Robbie now," Dipper mutters with a small sigh.

"That's nice," Ripley says, before she realizes what she's saying. "I mean, as long as Wendy's happy, that's honestly the main thing, right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Waddles approves of this message!" Mabel chimes in. Ripley tries giving a smile to Stan, who is still glaring stonily at the road ahead.

"Y'know, you-" Stan starts, then stops, fuming.

"...Stan, I said I was sorry for not listening to you about-"

"For what, for doing something stupid, for going through the forest that you _know_ is dangerous, for overshooting your place by miles, for showing up looking you got in a fight with, with-"

"Edward Scissorhands," Dipper offers. Ripley doesn't get the reference but it's pretty... self-explanatory.

"I didn't mean to do any of that, Stan, I got chased into the forest by a bunch of creeps in hoods, alright? Which, by the way, would have been nice of you to warn me about the local cult that erases people's memories of weirdness, Stan!"

"What cult!?" Stan squints over at her, scowling. "I don't know anything about some cult-"

"Cut the crap, Stan, one guy had a gun in my face, alright? This isn't time for your usual, pretending not to know what's happening, Stan, I-I could have really hurt somebody out there, Stan-"

"I'm not pretending, Ripley, I seriously don't know what you're talking about!"

Ripley puts her face in her hands, carefully taking her next breath. "They've been around for as long as you have, Stan, you can't tell me not once in thirty years you haven't... haven't..."

"I'm not lyin' to you," Stan says roughly.

"If you're..." Ripley takes another deep breath. "It's... oh... no, don't you see? It's just like- Stan, they were told not to get you, they must have- they must have thought you were F- somebody else. That's the only thing that makes sense, Stan."

"Why is _that_ the only thing that makes sense?" Stan asks sharply.

"Because their founder was the... the best friend and science partner of... of him, Stan. And even though he did the memory-erasing on himself, some part of him must have remembered that... that Stan Pines up at the Mystery Shack is off limits." Ripley sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Just like, even though he was forgetting his own family, he made sure they never went after Tate McGucket, either."

"What... are you saying?" Dipper asks from the backseat, and even without her glasses Ripley recognizes that Stan's throwing the same panicked look at her that she's giving him.

"...are you talking about Old Man McGucket?" Mabel asks softly.

"...if Fiddleford McGucket is Old Man McGucket, yes," Ripley says, drumming her fingers nervously on her knees, cringing slightly at the twin gasps from the backsteat. "Stan, listen, are you... are you okay with me telling them about... about him?"

Stan's knuckles tighten around the steering wheel, going white. "...no. I dunno."

Ripley nods, folding her arms over her chest.

"What? But- wait- are you talking about the Author?" Dipper asks, and Ripley bites her lower lip.

"Ye-es?"

"You said you would answer my questions about him, though!" Dipper says sharply, eliciting a squeal from the pig.

"You did?" Stan snaps. "That's not your secret to tell, lady!"

"Like heck it isn't," Ripley says, bristling. "He's mine _too_ , Stan!"

"Well _they aren't_! This paranormal junk almost killed him, it's almost killed you twice just since you got here, and I'm not letting you drag the kids into this mess!"

Ripley presses her lips together, before turning and looking into the backseat, at the worried preteens and their pet pig.

"You know what? Kids, your Grunkle's right. I'm not his ex-wife. We're not trying to patch things up because there was never anything to patch up in the first place. I met Stan for the first time three weeks ago."

"Ripley, stop-"

"What, Stan!? You don't want them to be around anything dangerous, right? Well _I'm_ dangerous!"

"I don't mean you!" Stan snaps, parking the car and turning it off with a jerky motion. "Kids, go inside, your Aunt Ripley and me got a lot to talk about, apparently."

"Does... does that mean you're not really our Aunt?" Mabel asks in a tiny voice.

Ripley curls up in her seat, but it's Stan who talks.

"No, pumpkin. She's still your Aunt. It's... complicated."

"How is it complicated? How is she still our Aunt?" Dipper asks, sounding hysterical. "You said she wasn't married to you, so-"

"She's your Aunt," Stan says, putting his hand on Ripley's elbow, "because she's married to the Author of the Journals. My brother."

The kids are quiet, and Stan sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose under his glasses.

"This isn't how I wanted you kids to find out."

"I don't understand," Mabel says. "How did you want us to find out we have more family?"

"By bringin' him home," Stan says. "Home from... from wherever she came out of."

"You kids... you know that I've been traveling for a long time between other dimensions, trying to get home, right?" Ripley sighs, leaning on the door. "That's where your... other Grunkle is right now. I'm sorry we lied to make you think I belonged around here, we couldn't think of anything else to explain why I was around so much if we didn't know he'd be around. That's how come we didn't tell you guys, if... if we try to get him home but for whatever reason we can't-"

"So you lied to us," Dipper says dully. Ripley ducks her head.

"It's complicated," Stan repeats.

"Aunt Ripley?" Mabel asks. "That part wasn't a lie. You still belong with us. You're still our Auntie."

"Thanks, baby. I love the both of you, too."

"Everybody needs to get to bed," Stan sighs, sounding, for once, exactly as old as he really is. He opens the door and steps out of the car, waiting until the kids are out of the backseat before walking them into the house. Ripley fumbles around in her bag until she finds her car keys, waiting until she hears the front door close before she gets out of the car and heads over to where she left the Ripleymobile parked the other day. She's just getting the door open when she hears Stan clear his throat behind her.

"You're not driving."

"No," she says, turning, her eyes cast onto the gravel of the parking lot. "No, I know. I can't see for shit, Stan, I was just gonna-"

"What? Stay out here? Worry the hell out of the kids by picking a fight and then avoiding us?"

"I wasn't kidding, Stan, I'm dangerous. I almost killed a guy last night." She shuffles her feet. "Last night, something happened, and I thought I was turning into a monster. I fucked up my face because I was trying to stop the eyes from opening. So either I'm... either I'm really, really fucked up in the head, Stan, or... or maybe it's really happening. So either way. I don't belong around those kids."

"Ripley," Stan says, sounding exasperated. She looks up, and he puts a hand on her arm. "People trust me to be around kids. The twins parents trusted me with them. I think you'll be okay. And if... look, if you really are turning into a monster, I'm sure my genius brother can fix it. Right?"

She feels her eyes get wet, her breath hitching as she rakes a hand through her hair.

"I'm sorry I picked a fight in front of the kids, Stan, I'm sorry I'm s-such a fuck up," she mutters.

"Pretty sure that's my line," he says, letting his arms dangle at his sides. "Come inside, we can talk about everything later. Alright? You're tired. I bet you didn't eat today. Everything's shittier when you're tired and hungry, trust me."

"Okay," she says, shutting her car door and locking it. She follows him inside, goes into the bathroom and spends way too long cleaning her own blood out from under her fingernails. He brings her his robe, and a black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that have gone ragged at the ankles. He gives her some privacy to change while he starts a laundry load with the clothes she's been wearing. She steps out and meets him at the foot of the stairs, her hair loose around her shoulders.

"Hey, uh... thank you, again," she says quietly. "I'm sorry. Again. Those kids... those kids are gonna be asking you a whole lot of painful questions."

"Ford told you everything?" Stan asks, and she nods. "Well. Maybe they'll be asking you some of those questions." His arms sort of twitch for a moment, like he has to psych himself up before holding them up a little. "Awkward... sibling hug?"

"You got that from the kids, huh?" Ripley asks, and he shrugs uncomfortably, his arms dropping.

"Alright, alright, no need to bust my ass over it-"

She throws her arms around him, burying her face in the strange-familiar smell of his undershirt, her fingers clutching at the thin material.

"Nah, Stan, sincere as _heck_ sibling hug," she mutters, sniffling. He doesn't say anything, just squeezes her back.

Neither one of them notices the sound of two twelve year old children, having watched this exchange in awed silence, closing the attic door and padding to bed in their socks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks at how this part has more chapters and longer chapters than blue bayou*
> 
> *realizes the third part is going to be fricking lord of the rings length god help me*
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr (icefeels) if you want to know how it makes sense to me that Stay's chapters are supposed to correspond to chapters in the Kill Bill epic rofl


End file.
